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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512039">We Are Like The Earth and Sky</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name'>Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Brotherly Bonding, Childhood Trauma, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Abuse, Fake Identities, Falling In Love, Found Family, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Secrets, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, None of it between Jaskier and Geralt, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Valdo Marx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:20:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>60,641</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Julian Pankratz is only eight years old when he watches his home and family burn, their deaths orchestrated by an unknown witcher’s hand. Forced to flee to Oxenfurt with his mother, Julian becomes Jaskier-- a boy raised on revenge and hurt, a son treated as a soldier with the sole purpose of enacting vengeance. When the world delivers one Geralt of Rivia to him, the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Jaskier’s role in life is clear.</p><p>“Befriend the witcher. Gain his trust… Use it to destroy him when the time comes.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Valdo Marx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>301</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Biggest of shoutouts to GJBB for hosting such a wonderful big bang!! </p><p>This fic has been such a dream to write-- I'm incredibly proud of it and so glad I can finally share it with the fandom! I would say the world but, well, I've already had a few lovely betas check this over and they've certainly heard far too many hours of me rambling about this thing. Shout out to my IRLs (aka Marriah and Friends) for delving into fandom for me &lt;3</p><p>And OF COURSE I need to shout out my fantastically talented artist <a href="https://calyssmarviss.tumblr.com/">Calyssmarviss</a> for creating such wonderful masterpieces for this fic I AM STILL FREAKING OUT OVER HOW BEAUTIFUL IT IS!! Go check out their art and give them some love. I incredibly lucky to have been paired with you!</p><p>Thanks again to the Geralt Jaskier Big Bang for giving me the chance to spend 2020 with this fic and fandom. I hope the rest of you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You will be the greatest bard on the Continent, mark my words!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian is used to this sort of praise from his grandmother but he preens all the same, chest puffed out and cheeks spread wide in a smile. His grandfather’s lute is still a bit uncomfortable in his hands— still a bit too big for an eight-year-old boy’s awkward grip— but he can play the few notes his grandfather taught him a few days before, a simple tune pieced together with his tongue between his teeth and his eyes squinted in focus.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He plays it again, just because he can. His grandmother applauds him for the third time tonight, chanting his praises and insisting that every court in the land will beg for his attention later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She says it so certainly, Julian’s already convinced it’s sure to happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian bows, the polite way his grandmother taught him. She nods approvingly as he stands again, glancing towards his mother as she walks into the room with their evening tea.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you filling his head with dreams again?” She asks, though she says it with a wink and a smile as she sets the tray down. “At least give us a few more years to convince him to do some schooling before you tell him it’s alright to run off and play music forever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your other boys can do their schooling,” Julian’s grandfather says from his seat by the fire, the main room of the Pankratz estate warmed by the family’s presence as it is on most nights. “You have three sons, Zuzanna. Let your youngest have the dreams the older two can’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian’s mother laughs softly, taking a seat between her own mother and father before fixing her gaze on Julian.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, then,” she says, hands folded gently in her lap. “Show me what they’ve taught you this time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian doesn’t fully understand why his two older brothers— Jakub and Antoni— have such stricter guidelines for their lives, but he knows he’s lucky to have the chances he has. Whereas his two older brothers— Jakub seventeen and Antoni just eighteen months behind him— spend hours with their father studying the Pankratz history and role in Lettenhove, Julian’s busy being coddled by his grandparents. A forever prince, they joke about him being, because he’ll never have the chance to really be heir.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, Jakub and Antoni say it like it’s a bad thing, like he should be ashamed to be so young. But, on nights like these, he knows they’re wrong. The music his grandparents help him play means more than the land and money and title that his older brothers always boast about.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Help me play the lullaby, grandma!” Julian asks, holding the lute out and blushing now that he has an audience of more than just two. His grandmother, streaked with grey and covered in wrinkles, rolls her eyes playfully and then steps forward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, alright,” she says, kneeling beside him and pointing out the right strings to hold. “We’ll practice once more and then play it for grandpapa, okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian nods so enthusiastically it hurts his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will you help me be a bird?” He asks. His grandmother laughs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A bard, darling,” she says. “And, from how quickly you’re learning, I’ve a feeling you’ll figure that out all on your own.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bard. It’s a silly word and it makes him think of those animals with wings and sharp beaks, even if his grandmother says that’s wrong. He’d like to be something like that, he thinks. Something that sees the clouds and stars so easily, something that knows exactly what color the sky is without needing to look up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bird. Bard. Whatever. They’re both such lovely sounding things. Special things. Safe things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian plays a few more of the childish tunes he knows, going through his grandmother’s lullaby twice in a row before his mother asks him to start calming down. Julian could argue that the lullaby is the calmest song there is— a song like a stream, moving from one note to the next with the ease of a river knowing precisely where to place itself— but she gives him a stern look that has him setting the lute back into his lap.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can I play for dad?” He asks hopefully, his grandmother taking her seat back beside the other adults. “He hasn’t heard me play yet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’ll hear you play tomorrow,” his mother says, interrupting her own conversation to answer him. “He’s in a meeting right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh?” Julian sits forward. He hadn’t heard about any guests, and they hadn’t had any fancy dinners like they typically do when someone important comes by. “With who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother’s face scrunches up briefly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A witcher.” She says it quickly, as though she’s afraid to keep the word in her mouth for too long. “He seems to think there’s some sort of monster in our town. He’s wrong, though. Don’t worry, sweetheart, your father will have it settled soon enough and then he’ll see you to bed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, just like that, she’s back to talking about harvests and taxes and other boring things with his grandparents.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The perfect opportunity for Julian to slip away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s heard of witchers before, the same way children hear of drowners in swamps and witches crawling through windows at night. They’re scary stories slipped into warnings, monsters that’ll come to take the naughty children away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More than that, though, they’re rare. Julian was still a newborn when his father, Viscount of Lettenhove, had made the order that witchers weren’t welcome among his people. They’re untrustworthy beings, he’d told all his children as they’d grown old enough to ask, and they’re no better than the beasts they kill. Julian’s heard the warnings for as long as he can remember; witchers are mutants with a thirst for human blood.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, now, his father has welcomed one in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Granted, he’s done so only to fix up a misunderstanding but excitement still thrills through Julian’s blood. While most children his age cower under their sheets at the thought of the murderous creatures, Julian’s always been more fascinated than he’s been afraid. Simon, the chef’s son, is just a few years older than him and says that witchers are evil because they have sharp teeth and dirty claws. They growl and they hunt and don’t do anything else. Julian had told him that his cat was exactly the same— a stray thing he named Dandelion because of its muted yellow color— and he tamed it just fine, thank you. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he can be the first person to tame a witcher. Wouldn’t that be a neat thing for a bard— or bird— to do?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian slows as he nears his father’s study, voices seeping into the hall from the open door. Julian’s listened in on enough conversations— all boring, all far too long to keep his attention— to know where to stand so he can see in without being spotted. On the edge of a spot of light pressed against the floor, he peeks in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father’s back is to him, his shoulders tense and blocking most of the man before him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m only expressing my confusion at the matter,” his father’s saying, his voice low and filled with the same tone he uses whenever Julian’s frustrated him. “I accepted your request to speak only to keep things civil but you’ve yet to answer my questions or provide adequate explanations for your being here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian doesn’t understand some of the bigger words and he mouths them to himself, trying them out and seeing if he can figure out what they mean. It doesn’t help him understand as someone with a lower voice than his father speaks up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said there were rumors of a monster in this city,” the stranger says, each word chosen carefully. “I’m willing to remove it if you’re willing to pay in advance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, you said,” his father replies with a sigh. “But you can’t explain what this monster is?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stranger speaks with a sharp-edged smile in his words, something that has Julian’s blood going cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A creature that preys on the poor, yes?” He says. “A being that lets other children starve so as to feed its own. A beast that deceives with a promise of protection while planning how best to steal from those who trust it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father scoffs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sound like you’re describing a fairy tale, witcher,” he says with a harsh laugh, though he begins to turn towards the chest that keeps his coins safe at night. “Still, if this thing is harming my people, you’ve my blessing to rid us of it. How much will you be taking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What happens next is nothing that makes sense.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father reaching for the key he keeps within the cabinets. A pouch of money coming free from the chest, resting comfortably in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His father turning towards Julian, his eyes filling with recognition seconds before they fill with shock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because, in the same second Julian’s father meets Julian’s eyes, a blade rips through his father’s body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s quick. Too quick. And, yet, it happens with a ferocity that dares time to stop; time keeps moving, though, keeps ticking by as though nothing is wrong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian hates time almost as much as he hates the blossom of red staining the front of his father’s shirt, framing the bit of steel sword that protrudes from his father’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher pulls his father back, and Julian hears him snarl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll be taking everything,” he says, and then he drops Julian’s father to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s when Julian begins to scream, the sound tearing from him like thunder and lightning from the sky. It burns his throat; it sets his entire body aflame as he meets the witcher’s eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher— the monster, the beast— smiles and it’s like a broken edge of glass. Crooked and jagged and aching for blood across it. Dark hair tangles around his head, dirt mars his face and hands as he lifts his sword once more. Just the one— steel for humans. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything,” he repeats. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Julian runs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not sure how he makes it from the study to the main hall from one second to the next, only of the sounds of a chase behind him. The witcher growls as Julian sprints, the sound disturbing Julian down to his bones, tears already forming in his eyes as he screams and runs into his grandfather’s arms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Julian?” His grandfather asks, appearing as though he’d been preparing to walk off to bed— or to follow the sound of Julian’s scream from before. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t— I don’t know,” Julian blubbers. “I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels the witcher appear in the doorway behind him. He feels the way his grandfather stiffens, the way his grandfather shoves him aside.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels the spray of blood across his face when the witcher’s blade tears across his grandfather’s throat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian doesn’t want to leave his grandfather’s side but it’s as though some other instinct takes over as he falls onto the ground, scrambling backwards with limbs trembling so harshly he fears he may fall apart. His grandmother’s wails join his own as she falls to her knees beside her husband— and Julian watches as she, too, is destroyed with the terrible sound of her neck and spine snapping beneath the witcher’s boot, his sword driving through her back as he twists his foot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s quick, Julian thinks. Thank Melitele, she doesn’t seem to notice the blade coming down until she’s already pressed against the body below her, blood trickling from her lips before her eyes fill with a flash of pain that goes out as quickly as it came. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least her death was quick. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, the witcher turns to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian’s still on the ground, too frantic to push to his feet as the monster advances, eyes like fire as he takes steady steps towards him. His fists tighten on his sword; an ugly scowl distorts his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If Julian was like his brothers, he’d know how to use a sword like that. If he was smarter or older or better, he could have seen the threat before it became a danger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he’s young and he’s scared and his hands are only good for the lute he grabs from the floor, curling and trying to tuck his body behind it. Mere moments ago, he held this instrument with the surety of a boy who’ll be a bard— a boy who’ll fly off and join the sky and clouds, a boy who’ll sing and smile and never fear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, though, the lute’s neck nearly slips from his fingers, his hands slick with his family’s blood. He’s just a boy; just a boy stuck trembling on the ground, waiting for his body to join the massacre he’s already seen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, just leave us alone!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher only smiles. His blade is higher than any bird could fly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no time for Julian to stand and run the way he knows he should. He only barely scrambles back in time, another scream lodged in his throat as the witcher’s sword cuts through the lute, splintering it with a sound like a melody on fire, a bird whose throat has been cut midsong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian’s still on the ground, still desperately seeking an escape, when his mother appears before him, a lit torch in her hand. She’s quick, swinging it into the witcher’s face, on her toes to reach, and then grabbing her son’s hand and pulling him back into the hallway with her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher’s pained yell follows him like a monster of its own, sparks and flames catching onto the thing’s skin as he bats it away, giving Julian and his mother time to run— time to hold onto each other and hope.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’re headed for the stables, Julian notices after a few twists and turns through the home, the rooms and halls dark and filled with nothing but their panting breaths. He holds his mother’s hand tight, little legs struggling to keep up with her wider stride.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll get the horses and find your brothers in town,” she tells him, lifting him to carry him on her hip, her hands digging bruises into his skin as she holds him close. “Tess is waiting there with our things. She’ll come with us. We’ll be safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tess, his nanny and his mother’s oldest friend. The name, at least, warms Julian with a sense of safety that fled the second he saw a blade emerge from his father’s chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They make it to the front door, cold night air a stark contrast to the drying blood on Julian’s face. He holds tighter to the front of his mother’s blouse, his fists small and useless.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t see, at first, why his mother stops so suddenly. He doesn’t understand her cry and the terror in her eyes, only that the sound hurts his ears when she stumbles and screams.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” She sobs, nearly falling to her knees, nearly dropping Julian. “My boys, no!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Julian turns his head, almost already certain of what he’ll see.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jakub and Antoni— his older brothers, his only friends— lie side by side in the dirt, their throats slashed open. The blood’s drier than that on Julian, sticking into the mud and mistaking itself for clay as it rusts into a dirty brown shade on his brothers’ skin. The color is almost the same as Jakub’s hair; the shape of the wound is almost just like Antoni’s grin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Zuzanna!” It’s Tess appearing from around the home, pulling two of the quicker horses with her. She’s still in her night robe, her hair loose from the strict dark bun Julian typically sees it in. “Zuzanna, here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only Melitele’s blessing and the weight of her son in her arms, Julian’s sure, that keeps his mother on her feet, falling forward into Tess’s embrace before lifting Julian onto a horse. He takes hold of the reins as tightly as he can, staring only at his hands as his mother swings up behind him. Julian presses back into her, letting her arms come around him, holding onto the reins and keeping him in place. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beside them, Tess pulls up into her own horse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Head for Oxenfurt,” she tells Julian’s mother as she turns her horse closer to theirs. “Zuzanna, do you hear me? You need to go to Oxenfurt. I have friends there, people you can trust to keep you safe. This was a planned attack against your family. Once you arrive, you can’t tell anyone else who you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian’s mother stiffens against him. “Tess—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Give this to the Marx family.” Tess pulls a brooch from her pocket— a flower, golden and just big enough to fit in Julian’s palm when he takes it from her. “They’ll recognize it as mine. They’ll help you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re coming with us, though,” Zuzanna says, her arms tightening around Julian. “You can come with us, there’s no reason to part ways.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tess’s eyes are sad even as she smiles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Someone,” she says, “needs to lead the witcher away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s no time!” Tess says, already directing her horse in the other direction. “Ride straight down the path out of the city— don’t stop until you see Oxenfurt’s walls around you. You and your son will be safe. Please, let me do this for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause, and then Julian’s mother nods sharply. Tess smiles one last time at Julian, nodding towards the brooch in his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You may change your name, young one,” she says, her voice for storytelling and lullabies— not this hurried farewell she’s giving now. “But no one can ever rewrite who you really are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julian doesn’t see Tess turn her horse and ride back towards the stables— towards the sounds of the witcher tearing through the home, yelling for him and his mother to come back. He doesn’t see the last look of fear in her eyes, or hear her yell for Zuzanna to go.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he does feel his mother sob against him, even as she spurs the horse into motion. He does hear the wind whistling in his ears as the horse runs faster than any horse he’s been on before, kicking up dirt for him to choke on as his mother yells for it to go faster still. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears the beginning of a fire behind him, and he can smell the smoke that must be surrounding the place he loved, the place he called home. He can feel his mother’s tears on the back of his neck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can feel the edges of this buttercup brooch cutting into his palm. It’s old, jagged enough to cut skin if he presses hard enough. He nearly does, searching for that bit of grounding pain, searching for proof that this is real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because if this isn’t real, if this is just a bad dream, he can wake up and go to his father’s room for comfort. He can open his eyes and listen for his brothers to sneak back inside after a night of drinking and chasing girls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can lie in his bed and listen to his grandfather and grandmother take turns with the lute.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even now, the melody they taught him— the lullaby, the last song— continues to play through his mind, strings filling the night as though they never stopped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s only when the buttercup brooch draws blood that he finally hears the sounds of his own sobs through the music within his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Growing up isn’t what Julian expected. It’s riding into a new town, just as dawn is breaking across the skies, blood still cracking against his skin and tears still stinging his cheeks. Growing up is shutting his mouth and hiding his questions even as his mother leads him to a stranger’s home, whispering frantically about the horrors they’ve escaped. It’s showing the brooch to a small family he’s never met, watching their faces fall into the same grief he’s felt marking his body since the witcher first made his blade known.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s changing his name— and “Jaskier” seems fitting when the family asks what to call him now. And, then, it’s forgetting everything else he’s never known to love— everything but his family and the way grief can turn to hardened rage within his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A decade passes almost without his permission. He grows under his mother’s watchful eye, the two never straying too far from each other as some unspoken fear of loss grips them tight. As the years change, his nightmares lighten, though they never truly fade. He still sees horror in his mind when he gives himself a second to think about who he was before he was Jaskier. Something awful and wild still rips at his skin whenever he pauses for more than a moment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, so, he never stills. Always moving, always talking, always doing something other than </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, today, as he wanders back into the place that’s been his home for ten years, his way of distracting himself is to complain. Loudly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Valdo fucking Marx is welcome to fall off the edge of the world at any moment,” he says, passing his practice sword to his mother. It’s a heavier blade than the fencing one he’d had for a few years before moving to a different style of lessons, but she carries it with the ease of a woman who, like her son, has refused to ever feel defenseless again. “Really, you think he’s an absolute arse to everyone he meets, or am I just lucky?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Zuzanna— her name the same, though she’s returned back to her maiden name as a way to hide— sighs to herself, gesturing to the dining table. Jaskier falls into one of the seats, frowning as he wipes a layer of sweat from his forehead. His mother places a small plate of bread and a bowl of stew before him, but he pays it no attention as he continues his rambling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a shame because I </span>
  <em>
    <span>love </span>
  </em>
  <span>the class— the instructor is much better than the man who tried to teach me how to be dainty with a fucking sword— but Valdo just has to enroll in the same course and do his best to show me up with every chance he gets.” Jaskier lets out an exaggerated groan. “Is it too late to move in with a different family?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s asked that question nearly every week since the Marxes took them in, Tess’s family accepting Jaskier and his mother with barely any questions. Zuzanna had told them the smallest details of what had happened— that their family had been killed, that they’re escaping the same fate— but Jaskier can’t help but wonder if they know the truth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Valdo certainly fucking does, no thanks to Jaskier’s big fucking mouth when he was younger. Valdo, just a year or two older than him, had done no more than ask why Jaskier had nightmares so often; like the child he was, Jaskier had told him the whole story, his hands squeezed into fists as he did so. At the time, Valdo had seemed kind, suggesting Jaskier take up these lessons— learn to fight so he can never be hurt again. And they learned together, for a while, letting the older boys in town teach them how to throw a proper punch, or wandering into the nearby trees to watch how hunters would hold their knives as they skinned their game. It wasn’t that they were friends— between his trauma and his mother’s protective nature, Jaskier never had time to consider friends— but they were companions.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until Valdo decided that he had to be better than Jaskier at every single thing they did. To say it became annoying would be an understatement— and Jaskier has never been one to accept anything other than the full range of the truth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother laughs but it’s not the kind sound it once was. Over the years, her voice has taken an edge that could almost be coldness, could almost be cruelty. It scrapes over Jaskier’s skin, shutting him up as she takes a seat beside him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You could always just drop your classes,” she suggests, though she must know Jaskier would never consider it. “Spend more time doing whatever it is you’re doing when you stay the night at the university’s library.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m studying, mother,” Jaskier says, doing his best not to pout. “About monsters and other creatures. About—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About witchers,” Zuzanna finishes for him, wrinkling her nose as she says it. She looks away from Jaskier, her shoulders stiff and her mouth tight. “I don’t see what good it does you to waste so much time on things like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because maybe I want to be prepared in case I ever face one,” Jaskier says, heart pounding in his chest. “Because, last time we saw a witcher, I couldn’t do a damned thing to stop him. I don’t— I can’t let the same thing happen again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Zuzanna shakes her head at Jaskier’s words, though there’s a fire in her eyes that lights anytime he talks of how he’ll slay the witchers one day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do you expect to stop a monster if you can’t even stop Valdo in a sparring match?” That cruelty again, that coldness in her tone. “Come on, then. Tell me how he beat you this time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier looks away from his mother’s gaze, toying with the dagger strapped to his hip. The buttercup brooch holds tight to the hilt of it, placed there when his mother first bought him the blade— given to him on his birthday the year after the attack. He supposes it’s to remind him of what he’s lost, of what he’s fighting for. Mostly, though, it reminds him why this ache in his chest won’t ever go away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He said there was a witcher near town. Some men in the streets were talking about it and he overheard,” he says, his voice suddenly low. “He brought it up while we were fighting— a method of distracting me, I suppose, and I fell for it. I missed a block because my mind was too busy wondering what I would do if he was telling the truth about one of those mutants being so close to my home again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even to him, the last part of that feels like an excuse for his failing, and his mother’s cool eyes is enough to assure him that it sounds the same to her. She sighs, standing and turning away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Valdo’s good with his words,” she says. “You’d do well to follow his example.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there— yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>— is the reason why Valdo’s such a pain. In the fondness of his mother’s tone when she says his name, in the pride she shows whenever Jaskier admits to being second in his class again— it’s there that Jaskier finds the hatred that fills his blood whenever he thinks of Valdo fucking Marx.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he was younger, it was easier to understand that, maybe, his mother has this favoritism because of the sons she lost. Valdo’s still younger than Jakub or Antoni were but he never acted like a child. Always polite and always smart, Valdo won Zuzanna over, and Jaskier has never discovered how to take his mother back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He supposes, after a time, he somewhat stopped looking. There are more important things to bother himself with, after all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Things like an unknown witcher in Oxenfurt’s woods. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve gone quiet,” Zuzanna says, her back to Jaskier as she starts cleaning the dishes from supper. It’s not something she would do when Jaskier was a child— when he was Julian. Then, they had servants to do this for them. For a while, the Marxes held the same stature, and Jaskier’s life was familiar. It was only a few years ago, after moving into a home of their own, that Jaskier and his mother began to do their own work. Jaskier doesn’t mind, he just wishes they moved farther than next door to Valdo’s family’s estate. “What are you thinking about?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing,” Jaskier mutters, still gazing down at the rusted yellow of the flower pinned to his dagger. It means something more than tragedy, doesn’t it? Revenge, perhaps, or justice? He slides his finger along the edge, his throat tightening when he thinks of the night he was given this brooch. He stands, suddenly, clearing his throat and grabbing his cloak from the back of the chair. “I’m going for a ride to clear my head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother gives a small sound to show she’s heard him, but she doesn’t turn to see the hardness in his eyes. She doesn’t see him check his dagger; she doesn’t watch him tighten his hold on the hilt as he leaves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier does mean it when he says he’s going for a ride. If he runs into a witcher on the way, though?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, can he truly be blamed for what happens if he does?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After close to an hour of wandering the woods outside Oxenfurt and finding nothing out of the ordinary, Jaskier’s far more likely to put his blade through Valdo than he is to put it through a witcher. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. He might do that whether or not he finds this supposed witcher. Once he gets the chance, at least.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he can make a close estimate by the darker blue of the sky— not quite night or sunset, but close enough that he should turn around and head back home. He’d left a horse tied by the edge of the tree line, just outside the city gates. It wouldn’t be unheard of for bandits to appear and steal her just because he took his time hunting down a rumor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, it’s a rumor that keeps his hand on the hilt of his blade, his breaths quick but certain. He could always turn around, yes— but he could also rid the world of one more monster. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The latter option sounds far more appealing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or, at least, it does, so long as he doesn’t think of his odds in a fight against a witcher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Jask,” he mutters to himself as he creeps through the trees. “You’ve got this. Just you against some crazy mutated beast, it—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cuts off with a small yelp when he hears a shout in the distance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shout, and then the frantic splashing Jaskier’s been taught to recognize as drowners.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though he’s also always been taught to run from the swamp areas of Oxenfurt, his breath catches sharply in his throat as he runs towards it. There’s only one being that would take on a group of drowners. There’s only one creature who’d last long enough to be heard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t know precisely what he expects to see when he emerges through the trees. Fortunately, he doesn’t have time to wonder before someone surfaces from the swamp waters, snarling in the midst of a group of muddied and bleeding drowners.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A witcher. Jaskier knew— he’d expected as much— but to see it so close… to stand at the side as dual blades flash under the dim light of the sky, to hold his breath as this thing growls and swears— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier can only stare.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher’s a flash of a silver blade and a strike of white hair, tangled and knotted and tied away from his scowling face. Every muscle of his body tenses as another drowner tosses itself at him, screaming as it impales itself on his sword. He’s inhuman eyes and black armor, power and thunder rolled into something resembling a human, if a human could ever hold such threat in the mere moments Jaskier’s seen him. He’s a witcher, a fighter, a monster-slayer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He swings his swords across a drowner’s throat, and, suddenly, he’s just like the creature that killed Jaskier’s family all those years ago.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though fear sticks thickly to Jaskier’s throat, he forces himself to pull his dagger free and to think past the horror he feels. Think of a plan, a strategy, to get to the witcher and get rid of him. A blade between his shoulders while his back is turned? Wait until he’s distracted and try to turn his own silver sword against him? Jaskier doesn’t know but he takes a step forward, anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s then that a drowner grabs him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Foul water fills his mouth as he’s pulled beneath the surface of the swamp, his scream cut short as the drowner grips him by the shoulders and shoves him down, snarling and snapping its teeth at him as it holds him in place. Only years of combat practice protect Jaskier as his instincts click into place, his blade shifting in his hand until he’s caught the drowner in the chest with his dagger. The drowner shrieks, bubbles blinding Jaskier as he kicks to find his footing, shoving the body away as he surfaces for air, his arms scratched and the back of his throat stained with mud and dirt. The edge of the swamp isn’t too far away, and he’s swimming for it when another group of drowners turn on him, their dead eyes fixed on his flailing form. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t know how many grab hold of him, but the one that matters is the one who reaches his ankle, pulling him back towards the nest as they fall upon him with a frenzy. Jaskier lashes out with every part of his body, cutting into blue-green skin and catching sharpened bones with his elbows and knees. Slime coats his body as he twists away from their grip, his coat tearing as he pulls free from another attempt to drown him. His footing is less certain than before; his breath is more mud than it is air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He imagines he hears victory in the drowner’s cry as he’s shoved beneath the surface again. He kicks. He screams. His dagger slices across limbs, never strong enough to free him. Gods, is this how he dies? At the hands of some thoughtless beast? He fights though his vision dims. He struggles though he knows it’s useless. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, all at once, the pressure upon him releases. The water fills with the sounds of the drowner’s wail, but Jaskier thinks nothing of it as something pulls the monster away. Jaskier, free to kick himself back from beneath the water, emerges with a gasp.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dragging himself to dry land is the only thing Jaskier can think of as the sounds of the fight echo behind him. He pulls himself onto the mud and dirt, gagging and spitting out water from his lungs. He thinks briefly of how it might have been to die; then, he thinks only of the reason he’s alive.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That damned witcher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns to watch the witcher finish the fight, the drowner who’d had Jaskier now floating dead by his waist. The witcher makes easy work of the rest of the nest, a blast of fire from his hands sending the last of them screaming as they swim away. Bodies of their fallen companions litter the swamp, cut apart with their mouths still open as though trying to recreate their horrid shrieks. Jaskier watches the witcher watch them leave, that silver sword still in his hand when he turns back to Jaskier.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you doing out here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s strange. He almost sounds human.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t respond, still shaking from the experience of nearly dying, and the witcher grunts, disapproval written into his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Is this the part where he kills Jaskier next? Is this how Jaskier joins the family he lost?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher raises his blade, but only to return it to the sheath on his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It— It doesn’t make any sense. For once, Jaskier is struck dumb— even more so when the witcher bends, extending a hand as though to help Jaskier to his feet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, it’s just that. It’s just Jaskier lying in mud, and staring up at a being that could break him in two. It’s just Jaskier looking into amber eyes and wondering why they don’t seem so cruel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then, the witcher’s grabbing him by his shirt instead, pulling him to his feet with another grunt. It’s not a rough action, though it certainly could have been gentler. It’s just— It’s just someone helping someone else to stand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It goes against everything Jaskier knows and believes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher’s quiet as he turns his back, walking towards a rather unimpressed horse near the other side of the swamp. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier still grips the dagger tight in his hand as he stares at the witcher’s exposed back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose I should thank you,” Jaskier says as he takes a few steps forward. “You know, for saving my life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If the witcher’s surprised at the conversation, he doesn’t show it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you don’t leave now, it won’t matter,” he says, still more focused on his horse than on Jaskier. “There are other monsters in these woods. It won’t be good if they find a human before they find me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier raises an eyebrow, shifting his grip on the dagger— a hold for stabbing, not slashing. “So certain I’m human?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The witcher looks back at him. He’s as indifferent as his horse but it almost feels like being caught, and Jaskier stills under the unaffected gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yellow eyes look him up and down, uncaring of or not noticing the dagger in Jaskier’s shaking hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You reek of fear,” he says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier gasps, distracted by his own offense as he stumbles back a step.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, well, you try nearly dying and see how you feel!” He snaps. Really, it might have been better for the witcher to have just stabbed him and be done with it; there’s no need to be so rude. “And I’ll have you know that I wounded quite a few of those monsters on my own without any fear or help. Is this how you treat all the people you save? Like they’re fools?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” the witcher says. “Just the ones who act like fools.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, this bastard is </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> getting stabbed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier huffs another insulted breath but forces himself to focus on his actual plan rather than his own hurt feelings. Killing a witcher. Avenging his family. Making his mother proud. Right, yeah. Easy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily enough, the witcher seems done with the conversation, muttering to his horse instead— which, really, the fact that he chooses an animal as more worthy of dialogue than Jaskier is proof that witchers are as dense as all the rumors say. Jaskier bites his lip and stalks a bit closer, raising the dagger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe in the neck. There’s no armor around his neck, and Jaskier’s sure he can’t miss a target as obvious as that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Still hanging around?” The witcher asks. Jaskier sucks in a small breath, trying to lure some sense of normalcy into his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just curious about what other monsters you’re going to hunt tonight,” he says. “I think I heard something about a giant bat while riding through town. Are you killing that one? Or is it just a rumor? I’ll warn you, rumors can be a bit exaggerated here— it’s the consequence of living in a city where half the population is studying to be an entertainer. Perhaps you should hunt them down next. If I have to hear one more butchering of a pretty song, I’ll burn the whole place down myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Rambling isn’t exactly a combat tactic but it does work as a distraction. Jaskier can tell the exact moment the witcher tunes him out, shaking his head and talking to his horse once more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier keeps spouting whatever random nonsense comes into his head. He’s closer now— gods, he’s closer. Just a few more steps and he’ll have witcher blood on his blade. A little more patience and, maybe, he can make one of the worst wrongs a bit right. No one here but him and the witcher— the odds should be fine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier lifts his dagger just a bit more— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then someone’s behind him, pulling his wrist back down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Valdo snaps. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t swear or curse at Valdo’s haughty tone but he does try to stab him. It doesn’t quite work, what with Valdo still holding his wrist and prying the dagger from his hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the fuck?” Jaskier hisses. Valdo simply raises an eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I should ask you the same thing,” he says. “Honestly, what are you doing out here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier wonders if he can shove Valdo into the swamp. If he’s lucky, it should lure a few drowners back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he has a chance to attempt murder, though, the witcher’s turned around. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fighting drowners and talking loud enough to attract any other creature with a taste for human blood,” he says dryly. He looks to Valdo, nodding towards Jaskier. “Is he your friend?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My baby brother,” Valdo says, and holy shit— Jaskier’s gonna kill him. Valdo puts a hand to his heart, fully overdoing any sort of protective older brother act. “He’s always wandering off and getting into trouble. Mother has to tie him to his bed at night just to make sure he’ll still be there in the morning. One time we found him in— Ah, I won’t bore you with his antics. I’m sure he’s done that enough on his own.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Valdo looks at Jaskier with a disgustingly smug smile. Jaskier looks back and vividly imagines how fun it would be to watch Valdo eaten alive by a bear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm,” the witcher says, either ignoring or not caring about how close Jaskier is to murdering his pretend brother. “Perhaps you should keep a closer eye on him. After my contract here, I’m leaving. And I doubt anyone else would be likely to save him should he run into trouble again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worst part is that the witcher doesn’t even sound like he’s trying to be mean. It’s like he honestly believes Jaskier’s going to wander into a ditch somewhere and die.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though, when Valdo looks at Jaskier with a less than impressed look in his eye, dying in a ditch doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. Anything would be better than having Valdo believe he’s done Jaskier a favor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Valdo says, all too seriously. “I thank you for protecting him. Good luck with your work.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, just like that, Valdo pulls Jaskier away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier stumbles to keep up with Valdo’s brisk pace. “Wait, but, but, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just keep walking,” Valdo snaps in a low tone. “We’ll talk later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s no amusement or joking in his words, no mockery or teasing. The coldness of his voice breaks the pleading within Jaskier’s, and they walk away from the witcher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jaskier stares back over his shoulder, though, staring at the witcher as he swings up onto his horse. Dried water and mud still stick to the witcher’s skin and armor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But, when he glances back at Jaskier, the dirt and mess mean nothing next to the sun-bright golden gleam of his eyes as he watches Jaskier walk away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Gods, Jaskier, I know I call you a thoughtless idiot but at least there was always some part of me that hoped I was wrong,” Valdo says before Jaskier has a chance to argue about being dragged along like a lost child. “But, no, apparently, you really are just that dense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just because you wet yourself at the mere thought of a witcher doesn’t mean the rest of us will,” Jaskier snaps, snatching his arm back. “I was fine. I had it under control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo turns on Jaskier suddenly. They’re near the city walls now, and sunset peeks through the remaining trees to light upon Valdo’s grey-blue glare. There’s tension in his jaw, and a vein twitching near his eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that what you told yourself before running off with nothing more than a flowery blade as protection? You barely ever best </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a fight— why the fuck would you think you could take on a fucking witcher?” Valdo’s angrier than he usually is at Jaskier’s antics, looking as though there’s fire waiting to burst from his throat or skin. “You think you’re so big and strong and unstoppable just because you have some tragedy to justify your stupidity. For once in your gods-damned life, will you just think with your head instead of your ridiculous, childish emotions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s cheeks burn as Valdo scolds him, his skin bristling from the cruel words. Swamp water and mud still stick to his skin and hair with a horrid stench, his clothes wrinkled and half undone from the struggle with the drowner, and he knows he looks just like the stubborn child Valdo always accuses him of being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to fight back, to scream and insult with sharp words of his own, but the sun is going down and he’s still shaking from everything that’s happened. The drowner, the witcher, the humiliation of Valdo once again being right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier looks away, his voice small but steady when he speaks. “Are you going to tell my mother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo hesitates in answering, his face a fraction softer when Jaskier glances back up. Already, Jaskier’s heart races at the realization of what the answer will be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She already knows,” Valdo says, at last, confirming Jaskier’s fears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it’s Jaskier with a clenched jaw and twitching eye when he steps back, feeling as though embers have been dropped into his chest, burning and sending his heart into an unhealthy race.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had planned on simply visiting for the night, so I asked Zuzanna if I’d be welcome to stay,” Valdo continues. Jaskier could have guessed that part on his own. Valdo spends more nights at Jaskier’s home than he does his own, no doubt due to Zuzanna’s doting upon him. His family’s insistence that Jaskier and his mother are family to them, regardless of where they live, doesn’t help, either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All this to say, Jaskier can follow along with why Valdo was with his mother. What he can’t follow along with is what on earth motivated him to come </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t until I asked where you were that she realized you’d left.” Valdo doesn’t seem to be saying it to be cruel but Jaskier scoffs anyway. He doesn’t lack self-confidence but he knows that Valdo may as well be his mother’s only son. Sure, she cares for Jaskier but she doesn’t notice him; she wants him alive but, somehow, simply surviving is hardly enough for her. “From there, it was seeing that your horse was gone and then remembering that you’d been telling her about some witcher in the woods. Admittedly, I didn’t actually think you’d be stupid enough to come out here but Zuzanna was insistent I come save you from your own decisions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My </span>
  </em>
  <span>decisions,” Jaskier snaps because that’s the part that’s easy to latch onto. That’s the part that doesn’t sting as much as his mother not noticing he left. “Which means you should leave me to do what I decide. I wouldn’t have come out here if I didn’t think I could follow through with it. I said it before and I’ll say it again— I had it under control.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For gods’ sake, Jaskier, you fucking didn’t!” Valdo shouts, a red rage blooming on his cheeks as he loses his temper in a way he so rarely does with Jaskier. “Just think, for once in your fucking life, about what you’re doing. You were going to get yourself killed— is that really so hard to understand? If it wasn’t for me, that witcher would have had you tossed right back in with the drowners, or worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why do you care so much?” Jaskier sneers, tamping down the hurt and shock rolling like thunder and lightning under his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because when you came to my family, you became nothing more than a bratty younger brother meant to hold onto the Marx name,” Valdo says with narrowed eyes and a curled lip. “However you feel about me or my family doesn’t matter. But what you do reflects back on my household, my loved ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never claimed to be a Marx,” Jaskier says, barely able to see past his own rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mother did,” Valdo says, his voice cold and cruel. “Or are you not her son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier swings a fist at Valdo without thinking it through, only focused on the way he aches to put a bruise on that stupid smirk, to put some blood across those terrible lips. He thinks only of shutting him up, of hurting him the way Jaskier always seems to be so fucking hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But because it’s Valdo, he grips Jaskier’s wrist with an ease that’s almost pathetic. Because it’sValdo fucking Marx, he shifts his weight into an easy spin, using Jaskier’s force to turn him around, Jaskier spitting and swearing as Valdo pins his arm behind his back. He keeps it just far enough that there’s a twinge of discomfort— not enough to hurt or break anything; somehow, the care he takes in keeping Jaskier safe is almost worse than if he’d swung a fist back at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really are stupid,” Valdo hisses, leaning close to Jaskier’s ear. “You’re blinded by your rage and thrown off by your desperation. Did you really think you’d land a hit in a state like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” Jaskier snarls, tugging against Valdo’s grip uselessly. “I’m a top student in all my classes, combat included.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Valdo says, and his voice is suddenly terribly gentle— a pool of clear water with monsters waiting in the darkened deep. It sets Jaskier’s nerves on edge. “And yet you’ve still never beaten me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo shoves Jaskier away, releasing his wrist as though he’s letting a tamed dog off its leash. Jaskier faces him, rubbing his wrist though it doesn’t hurt. It’s easier to pretend Valdo’s bruised him, easier to pretend the hold was harder than it was. Gods, he can never figure Valdo out, if he hates him or if he sees him only as the snot-nosed child who invaded his home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo watches him complain to himself, shaking his head with a sigh. A headache hammers at Jaskier’s skull at the sight of such a reprimanding attitude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to go too far someday,” Valdo says simply. “Whatever part of your past is haunting you, you need to move on before you get hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lecture given, Valdo turns and walks to the horses left by the trees, his mare tied next to Jaskier’s. He doesn’t look back, so certain Jaskier will follow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, with no other choice, Jaskier does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The slap Jaskier’s greeted with when he returns home is only made worse by the scathing voice that follows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit down and shut up,” his mother says. Jaskier follows her directions without question. His hand twitches in his lap, nearly reaching to rub at the soreness in his cheek, but he keeps still as Zuzanna turns her back, taking steady breaths even as the tension in her shoulders remains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s alright, he thinks, it’s fine. She’s been angry and hurt ever since she lost her family in that attack. It’s not her fault that she’s in pain. She’s still a good mother, he reminds himself. She’s only upset because she cares, because she worries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, at times like this, it’s hard to remember she cares for him, at all. There are distant memories of her stroking his hair or kissing him goodnight, but these are memories from a different life for a boy with a different name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo sneaks away, his eyes averted as he passes by Jaskier. It’s one kindness, Jaskier thinks, though it’s humiliating, as always, to know Valdo saw the hit. Jaskier stares down at his lap, fiddling with his fingers. There’s dirt under his nails. He distracts himself by picking it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to think carefully, and then I want you to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing.” Zuzanna speaks in a tone that barely trembles, her back still turned. This does nothing to ease the ice inside her words. Jaskier says nothing, still staring at his hands when his mother turns to face him, her hand slamming against the wall beside her. “Did you even think of what would happen if the witcher recognized you? If he came back to finish the job? You would have been putting the whole town at risk, do you realize that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a barb that embeds deeply into his skin, stilling his actions and stealing his breath. It wasn’t the witcher from that night, he wants to say, it wasn’t the one behind the massacre. But his mother sounds so sure and she looks so upset and, well, Jaskier can’t help but picture what she’s saying. Running back into town with that white-haired witcher at his heels, swords gleaming as they cut down anyone and everyone in his path. Blood in the streets of Oxenfurt, flowing from the veins of those who’ve made the mistake of associating with Jaskier and his foolishness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a vivid thought, one painted with the same shades as the nightmare memory remaining in his mind. Cut throats and blades emerging from chests. Would he have brought that horror to his family again?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry. I just— I thought I could get rid of him.” Jaskier blinks quickly, hoping he can blot out his mother’s angered and disappointed gaze. “One less witcher in the world— is that really such a terrible thing to achieve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but how would </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>achieve it?” Zuzanna asks, exasperation thick upon her words. Jaskier flinches away from them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I don’t know, exactly, but I do know that the witcher didn’t see me as a threat. He pulled me from some drowners and turned his back as though it was nothing.” Jaskier pretends not to taste the desperation on his tongue, pretends not to notice the way he leans towards his mother with widened eyes and fidgeting hands. “He— He almost seemed to like me. So I could have gotten closer to him and then—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then what?” Zuzanna cuts in. Jaskier knows, in a corner of his mind, that it’s his weakness and not hers that’s brought this viciousness out of her. “He lets you draw close to him, accepts you as a friend? A witcher’s pet human, following him day and night until the bastard is stupid enough to let his guard down. What a foolish idea, what—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna pauses the pacing she’d begun, something new and terrible lighting in her face when she slowly turns to Jaskier with a wonder in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” she says, nothing but a breath carrying the words to Jaskier. “What an </span>
  <em>
    <span>idea</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier should take her distant eyes as an excuse to leave, to say one last plea for forgiveness and then hide away in his room. It’s always smoothed things over before, a parry to his mother’s attacks, but, instead, he looks upon his mother’s face and reaches for her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mother?” He asks when her strange silence has gone on for too long. “Are you alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinks at the sound of his voice, looking down at him with an expression he doesn’t believe he’s ever seen before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look terrible,” she says but it’s in a softer tone, a gentler voice. She pulls her hand free from his and strokes down his cheek, tutting when he flinches at her fingers brushing the bruise she’d left there. “Sit still.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does as she says, watching with a wrinkled brow as she leaves the room, returning a few moments later with a dampened rag, water dripping from her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She still doesn’t speak as she kneels before him, wiping away the dirt and grime coating his skin. She focuses on her task with a thoughtful gaze, smiling as mud slowly peels from Jaskier’s face and neck. Jaskier doesn’t move but not because he was told not to; he doesn’t think he could so much as sigh. His mother moves onto the place she’d struck, frowning as she tenderly runs the soft fabric over the delicate skin. Jaskier wonders if there’s a cut, if there’s blood she’s wiping away. She’s not wearing any rings today but, he knows from experience, her nails are more than enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should be more careful,” she says, dropping her gaze as she moves to wipe away at Jaskier’s hands and arms, lifting his wrist and frowning at the scratches left there by drowners. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier swallows, watching as she cleans away the dirt he couldn’t get out from under his nails. “I know. I’m sorry, mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles, and relief fills Jaskier at the sight. He’s forgiven. He’s okay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna’s pushing at his sleeves and cleaning at his arms when she looks into his eyes to speak again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I may have judged your goals too harshly. You have stumbled upon the solution to our problems, after all. Who could have guessed it?” Zuzanna asks as she’s feeling a cut on Jaskier’s arm, a slight gash left from a drowner’s claw. “My son, discovering the key to destroy all witchers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier warms at the praise, her words washing over him more thoroughly than any wet rag could. So focused on the feeling of her pride, he barely realizes what she’s fully said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once his mind has caught up, though, he frowns. “All witchers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her task finished, Zuzanna sets aside the rag and takes Jaskier’s hands into her own, staring up at him with a brilliant light in her eyes— eyes as bright as a puddle of water beneath a midday sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll do exactly as you told me you could— find this witcher, grow close to him. Become his friend and, eventually, gain his trust.” She tightens her hold on his hands, pulling him closer down towards her face. “Once you learn of his weakness, report it back to me. There are people in this town who want those mutants gone. I’ll work with them to create something of our own army— Valdo can help, I’m sure. We can rid the world of those monsters, at last.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, wait. Hold on.” Jaskier tugs free from his mother’s touch, shoving the chair back so he can stand and stumble away from her insistent gaze. “I just meant I’d be close enough to kill him. Not… Not that I could </span>
  <em>
    <span>befriend </span>
  </em>
  <span>him or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you see that this is the only way? Can’t you understand that you’re the only one who can do this?” Zuzanna stands, following him and taking his wrist in her hand. It’s not as gentle as it was before, bruising and aggravating the cuts she’d just cleaned. Her other hand grabs hold of his collar, holding him in place even as his feet shift nervously across the floor. “The witcher’s already seen you once and determined that you’re not a threat. You’re the perfect spy, darling. Can you do this for me? For our family?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, gods, when she says it like that, how is he supposed to say no?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows, pretending the pounding of his heart is the same excitement he sees in his mother’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” he whispers. He longs to shut his eyes, to look away; instead, he meets his mother’s gaze and forces himself to smile. “Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother steps back and he lets her go, his hands falling limp at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles as though she can’t tell that Jaskier’s grin is fake— a mask that lasts until she’s turned her back once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How has Jaskier never realized just how small Oxenfurt is? How many times has he looked past the bridges and gates leading off these isles, seen the trees and rivers but never considered what waits past them? His venture with the witcher and drowners was one of the few times he’d left the safety of this town; the other times, he can count on one hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes a month for him and his mother— and Valdo, unfortunately— to perfect their plan. Still, even with all this time, Jaskier’s dread remains as he stands at the edge of the city each day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oxenfurt and Lettenhove. His life can be summed up by the name of two places. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna’s helped him pack his bags, helped him trade in a horse for a younger one— though her expression sours when he declares he’s naming him Pegasus. Pegasus is slower than his last horse and he takes his time when leaving the stables but Jaskier quickly grows fond of the gelding. He’ll need a friend for his first time traveling alone, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone. Gods, he’ll be doing this </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It helps not at all to think of how Valdo and Zuzanna will be here to receive his letters and ready their own side of the plot. Jaskier can focus only on how silent the roads will be, how empty the paths will feel. He’s become rather popular amongst his classes, often having a friend to wander the streets with whenever he’d go out. Already, he feels the loss of companionship as vividly as though it’s been unfairly stolen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The day of the journey, he wakes early and sits alone in his room as the sun begins to rise. He places his head into his hands and does his best not to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I know you’re strong enough to do this on your own</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” his mother had said the night before as though reading his fears in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier had said nothing, and he holds onto her words now as he sits, shaking, on the edge of his bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not fear of death that grips him as he realizes how little time he has left to prepare. It’s not even fear of the witcher— the fucking Butcher of Blaviken, he’s learned from the gossiping men in the taverns. No, it’s the fear of failing. His mother believes him strong enough to do this alone. She’s never seemed to believe that before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has one chance to prove that she should have believed it all along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More than that, the weight of his family’s murder sits heavily upon his shoulders, and he nearly crumbles under the pressure. He’s heard rumors of after-lives, though so few professors seem to have a full answer for what that looks like or if it’s real. Jaskier would like to think it is, that his brothers and his father have been watching him grow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, though, the thought sickens him. Will they be betrayed, he wonders, if he can’t avenge them the way they deserve? Will they forgive him for what it takes to seek out that vengeance?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Find the Butcher— and, gods, that story frightens him when he remembers how the man with rotten teeth told it, how gleeful he had been to speak of rivers of blood and bodies covering the streets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Find him. Befriend him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This plan is his own doing, the blueprints made when he followed a rumor into a monster’s nest. And, now, he has no fucking idea how to succeed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s too late, though, to turn away from his role, if that was ever even an option.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, he does the next thing that makes sense. He washes. He dresses. He packs his last bag, a satchel to carry over his shoulder. He fills it with coins, with a pair of gloves, with simple food to snack on as he walks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches for his bedside desk and reveals a dagger with a buttercup brooch, staring at the yellow shine before placing it where it belongs at his belt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he looks up, his mother is in the doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I made breakfast,” she says, her tone making it clear she’d been waiting for him. Jaskier hadn’t realized he’d wasted so much time on his lamentations. Already failing an expectation, already disappointing himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” he says. “I’m not hungry, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, he can believe his mother frowns because she knows he’ll be on the road for a while, that the rations they’ve packed won’t replace a meal after a day of walking under the sun. He can believe her glance over him is to make sure she’s okay with sending him out, rather than simply making sure he’s properly prepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember what you’re going to do?” Zuzanna asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lets out a breath and repeats the same thing that’s been going through his mind for the past month.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Find the witcher. Befriend the witcher. Gain his trust. Use it against him.” He repeats it the way he recites textbook work for class, with little thought and with the fear he’s forgotten a word somewhere. His mother nods and, though she doesn’t ask, Jaskier can’t help but add another statement. “I’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” his mother says, walking forward and adjusting his doublet to smooth away the wrinkles around the buttons. When was the last time she took such care with his clothing? It’s not as though the witcher will be concerned about whether or not there’s a tear in Jaskier’s shirt. Still, it takes everything in Jaskier not to push closer towards his mother’s touch, to grab hold of her hands so he doesn’t have to leave and wonder when the last time it was he held his mother’s hand without fear. Zuzanna’s careful not to touch him, though, as she finishes her work. Every bit of motherly contact, every bit of care and concern, is held back by the expectation she sets upon Jaskier when she looks him in the eye. “Make me proud.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She brushes her knuckles across his cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier smiles, his own eyes brimming with childish emotion as he nods back at her. “I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a thick feeling of wariness and fear pressed against Jaskier’s back, a sensation that keeps him moving forward despite his wish to turn back home. It’s only been a day of travels— barely any time, at all— but he still holds Pegasus’ reins tightly; he still calms himself with deep breaths and the reminder that this is something he can do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not only that— this is something he </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>to do; for every reason he thinks to return home— every fear and certainty of his own demise, his own failure— that simple fact outweighs each one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He arrives at a small town outside of Oxenfurt a few hours before sunset, dismounting Pegasus and seeking out the first inn he can find. He’s sure his mother would like him to travel farther— longer, faster— but he needs to know where to go first. He needs to find news on the witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tracking things down may not be his favorite activity but, at least, he knows he’s good at finding information.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a notice board beside the inn, a collection of papers nailed to the wall, worn by rain and torn by time. Missing loved ones are reported next to merchants selling wares. Announcements of future festivals or requests for certain workers seem most popular.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the center of the board, though, rests the largest notice. A piece of paper, twice the size of any other, signed by the alderman and written with dark ink flutters lightly from where it’s pinned. Jaskier reads it with his lips pressed tight together— a call for a witcher to come kill some monster in the trees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bottom half of the paper’s been torn away, the part discussing details of the beast and the promised pay for whatever witcher comes through to rid the town of its terrors. Jaskier frowns at it, arms folding over his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are the torn edges a good or bad sign on this note?” Jaskier asks the person standing next to him, a portly man with laugh lines around his eyes and with crumbs in his thick red beard. He looks at Jaskier with a raised brow, pausing his work in nailing up another notice— something about finding a lost sheep and hoping to return it to the right family. Jaskier pokes the witcher request beside the man’s paper, replacing his frown with a smile and aiming for a small chuckle. “Might be for the best to make sure the monster’s gone if I’m taking those roads at any point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no worries. You should be fine,” the man says, bumping shoulders with Jaskier in a friendly manner. “The Butcher of Blaviken came by just a day or so ago to rid us of that particular creature. Though calling him a butcher may be a bit off. Silent as a mouse, he was, and then gone with no trouble once he got his pay. He didn’t seem quite that monstrous to me but what do I know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier tries not to let the man’s words sour his expression, smiling tightly as he laughs along, dropping his hand back to his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good luck, that,” he says. “Maybe the butcher should stay just one town ahead of me all the time. Clear my paths of beasties so I don’t have to worry about them on my own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man continues his laughter, shaking his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if it helps, the witcher was talking about heading towards Posada,” he says, nodding towards the direction of the eastern town. “Take those roads and you just might get your wish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Jaskier says with a bright smile. “Thanks. Hopefully I survive long enough to see if you’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man nods, returning to his work— though he continues to talk to Jaskier about other monster rumors, things that Jaskier tunes out as he wonders how long it would take for him to make it to Posada on his own. He has a map in his pack and the roads throughout Redania are typically up-to-date. Posada, if he remembers correctly from his classes, is on the other side Aedirn, a country he can travel to so long as he follows the right rivers for long enough. It’s a farther trek than he’d hoped for but not as bad as it could have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s wondering whether he’d be more likely to meet the witcher on the way to Posada if he took lesser known trails when he notices the figure pressed into the shadows of the alley beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier stills and watches, from the corner of his eye, the cloaked man— someone in a midnight blue, covering their face and clothing beneath the thick fabric. Seeing someone lurking in the shadows is frightening enough but, Jaskier realizes, he’d seen him before while traveling. Someone with soft steps who’d been behind Jaskier as he’d left his mother in Oxenfurt, someone he hadn’t thought twice about because they’d been so far behind him— because he’d lost him at some fork in the road, anyway, and forgotten about the traveler .</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, though, the dark cloak shifts in the same way it did when the rider kept their horse just far enough behind Jaskier to keep from being suspicious. The figure— taller than Jaskier by a few inches, though Jaskier can’t tell the weight from where he stands— slips into the dark as if afraid he’d been spotted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek, brushing his hand ever so subtly across the hilt of his dagger. It’s a comforting weight on his hip and, reassured by it, Jaskier turns to lead his horse into the stables.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If this is his first chance to prove himself, then he welcomes it with open arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settles Pegasus into the stables, unloading his things and dismissing the stablehand who tries to help brush the horse down. Alone, it’s easy for Jaskier to make his next moves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waiting by the entrance of the stables, his belongings at his feet and his dagger in his hand, it’s not long until the dark-cloaked figure wanders in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t give him a chance to take more than one step.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Years of training are what guide him as he frees his dagger from his belt, sliding into place behind his follower. A hand over the man’s mouth in one second, his dagger poised at his throat the next— Jaskier holds tight, keeps his breaths steady, and pulls the man away from the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been following me,” he says in a low whisper. “I really hope you have a good reason for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier begins to remove his hand from the man’s mouth, slowly, though he applies just a bit more pressure to the dagger as a warning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s expecting for some cruel voice to fill the small space, to threaten him or say they know his plan. Perhaps it’s someone who knows the Butcher; perhaps it’s someone who knows the witcher who killed his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he doesn’t expect, however, is for a horribly familiar scoff to escape the man in his grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, Jaskier,” Valdo says. “Is that the best you can do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s still reeling from the shock of Valdo being here, and he’s unprepared for when Valdo tosses an elbow back into his abdomen, his other hand coming up to hold the dagger in place— he holds tight to Jaskier’s wrist, digging his fingers in until Jaskier’s forced to release the blade. He kicks away as Jaskier gasps for breath from the first blow, spinning from Jaskier’s grip and using a well-placed foot to trip him as he shoves Jaskier to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s as embarrassing as it always is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t— I don’t understand,” Jaskier says, staring up at Valdo with his heart in his throat. Then, as Valdo lifts the dagger from the ground and inspects it, Jaskier’s gaze hardens. “My mother sent you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a question and Valdo, at least, winces at Jaskier’s tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here to make sure you don’t get into any trouble,” he says, choosing his words carefully. It only serves to put salt in Jaskier’s metaphorical wounds, and Jaskier shoves Valdo’s hand away when he reaches in an offer to help him up. “Your mother does care for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier turns his back on Valdo, brushing off his clothes and swearing colorfully to himself. This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>task, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>part in the plan. It’s his job, his role, his right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s his family to avenge, not Valdo’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, we can be partners,” Valdo says, actually sounding as if he thinks that’s a good fucking idea. Jaskier swears he sees red in the edges of his vision. “Work together. Take down the big bad and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off!” Jaskier turns with a snarl, shoving Valdo back and only growing angrier when Valdo doesn’t fall. “We can’t be partners. Not in this. I’m not a child, Valdo, and I’m not fucking useless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo stands still before Jaskier, looking at the dagger in his hands as though looking for his reflection in it. “You can’t know that you won’t need help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I do know that it’s my fight and that it’s never been yours,” Jaskier says, daring Valdo to disagree. He feels some small thread of satisfaction when he sees Valdo’s eyes narrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can barely hold a knife properly to my throat,” he hisses. “What makes you think you can take on a witcher? Is that really how you want to die?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bites his tongue until he’s sure it will burst. Gods, why must Valdo treat him like this? Jaskier knows what Valdo thinks, what his mother thinks, what Jaskier himself thinks when it’s late and he hates everything about who he is. He can’t do this, it was foolish to think he can. They think he’s weak, that he’s pathetic. That he can’t stop a witcher, that he can’t protect himself or his family— just like he couldn’t back then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave,” he says, stepping back with his hands tight fists at his sides. “I don’t care where the hell you go, just let me do this on my own. Because, honestly, with you here? I don’t see the point in doing it, at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo’s eyes widen just enough for Jaskier to allow himself to feel some gratification at the sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo hesitates, toying with the dagger in his hands, and then passes the blade back to Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your anger is going to get you killed.” His voice is soft. Some may even call it concerned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jaskier knows Valdo better than that and he snatches the dagger away, still holding it in his hand as he lifts the rest of his belongings from the ground and leaves the stables.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I better not see you again,” he calls over his shoulder. “Seeing you once has been more than enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier enters the stables the next day with his lips pressed into a thin line, almost certain he’ll see Valdo again, lounging against a wall with that stupid smirk on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, all he finds is Pegasus. He blinks a few times to be sure Valdo’s actually gone— it’s strange to think of Valdo respecting his wishes for once— but, eventually, he sighs in relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his own. Officially, this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Considering that Valdo is possibly the most stressful thing Jaskier has ever dealt with, he’s rather pleased as he wanders through town with Pegasus. It’s good to get the worst parts of a trip out of the way first, he thinks, and so everything else should be downhill from here. At least, he hopes everything else will be as easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He talks quietly to Pegasus about his plans to go to Posada, a large map pulled out in front of him as he walks. The innkeeper he’d spoken with had suggested a few shortcuts, and Jaskier tries to mark them all out mentally, hoping to cut down his travel time by a few days, at least. He doesn’t want to push Pegasus too hard, but he’s willing to forgo a few breaks if it means he catches up with the witcher more quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His more pressing concern, honestly, is his money. He’d packed enough to last him a few weeks but he’d like to have enough that he doesn’t need to worry about paying for inns or food. Sure, he knows he could write his mother to send him more; somehow, though, something about that doesn’t sit quite right with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach contracts as he stops in front of the marketplace, sighing as he seeks out paper and the other materials he’ll need in order to send a letter back home. If it’s the last option he has, he’ll go through with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stops, though, when he spots something else hanging farther down the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lute’s made of good wood, carved with abstract lines that seem to shift shapes the more he looks upon it. The sun dazzles across the strings like starlight over clouds, lighting them up as though trying to make them sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier grows cold and, for a moment, he remembers how it had felt to have the lute fall from his hands, cut away by a witcher’s blade. Snapping strings and cracking wood and fire and screams and— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Watch it!” Some man snaps, shoving past Jaskier. Jaskier mutters an apology, still staring and still halfway stuck in his memories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was younger, he heard stories of people made of music. People who soared and danced across the skies because they knew how to create emotion out of songs, out of words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was younger, he heard of bards and, now, some unspoken part of him reaches for the lute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a step back, catching his breath and not realizing he’d been holding it. Choking gasps and more apologies to those who walk by, their noses upturned as Jaskier tries to blame his blurry vision and aching throat on anything other than the memory of smoke in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should turn away from the lute. He should grab his papers and go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it hurts, too, to think of asking for his mother for help so early in his journey. It reddens his cheeks; it wraps around his chest and squeezes thorns into his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t write her for money. And, like she said, he’s strong enough to do this on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So… It’s all for the best, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he walks away from the marketplace later that day, a lute case slung across his back, he doesn’t feel quite so certain anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, where the lute case touches him, he feels as though he’s burning. He wants to scream as he walks out of town, but finds he can’t say anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can do is walk and hope he doesn’t lose himself too deeply in the past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, Jaskier doesn’t trust his voice. He travels for another day and night, only speaking when he has to. A few people he passes ask about the lute; he realizes he can’t say no to these requests forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's the morning of the third day, and he’s wandering down a road alongside the Pontar River. He walks beside Pegasus, kicking dirt as he thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun’s just barely risen an hour ago. The sky still has that dusty tone to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, with shaking hands, Jaskier pulls his lute free and begins to play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s off— entirely so. His fingers fumble across the strings, trembling so much he hits the wrong chord nearly every time. But he has to become good at this; he has to be better. If he wants coin, he needs to be good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he wants his plan to work, he needs to be the best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d figured it out the night before, the way to make the witcher trust him. Play the part of a stupid bard, someone delicate and made of bird bones rather than the sharp-edged teeth of someone forged by murder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the very thought of that murder, though, that causes him to drop his hands as though the strings are cutting him, finally able to breathe once his hands are free. He continues singing to himself— some ditty he came up with as a child, a silly thing about monsters and creatures he knows don’t exist. The lute hangs from the strap wrapped around him, constricting and just on the edge of too tight. His words and lyrics are breathless things, barely formed as they tremble off his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in the middle of the last verse when a noise off the road pauses him. A noise like a shriek or a scream, inhuman and strong enough to leave even the trees shaking, a sound like—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. That’s a monster, isn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pauses, turned towards the sound with his voice caught in his throat, listening to the horrific echoes of a fight that sounds far too close for comfort. A hand goes to his dagger, the other slipping the lute back behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches as birds flee from their hidden perches upon the tree branches, escaping in a way he dearly hopes he can, as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The monster sounds as though it’s just past the trees but, as he listens more closely, it sounds too distracted to come after a simple traveler sneaking past on the roads. If he runs, he can put enough distance between them. Hell, even riding Pegasus could save him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s tightening his boots and preparing to spring when another sound comes from the direction of the monsters. Something like a growl— one he swears he’s heard before. Not quite a snarl and not half as monstrous as that of whatever continues to scream and shriek. It’s a bit more human, though there’s an edge of something more. Something dangerous and familiar, something like—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. That’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>witcher, </span>
  </em>
  <span>isn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, are you fucking kidding me?” Jaskier stamps his foot and stares, jaw dropped, into the heavens. “Of all the rude and downright ill-mannered things to do, you’re telling me that brute has decided to stick around long enough for me to catch him in another fight? Probably just to spite me, too, I bet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, so, maybe, he had a whole plan for how the reunion with the witcher would go. He’d thought it up the night before, practicing introductions in his dagger’s reflection and trying to style his hair in new ways. He’d hoped that, by the time he arrived in Posada, he’d overcome his… </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>about lutes and be able to play a riveting song for a riveted crowd in one of Posada’s most popular taverns. Then, after collecting the appropriate applause and coin from his audience, he’d walk right up to the witcher and say something sweet about his brooding. Because, of course, he’d be brooding. Jaskier knows a brooder when he sees one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But now that plan’s ruined thanks to the Butcher of Taking His Fucking Time deciding to cut down Jaskier’s timeline by several days, if not weeks. Melitele forbid he head straight to civilization like a normal person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s more or less aware of the fact that he’s being irrational. He also more or less doesn’t care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay here,” he says, glaring at Pegasus before marching into the trees with spikes of hot rage under his ribs. Wandering off the trail leads him a bit into a maze but the sound of fighting is enough to keep him headed in the right direction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still grumbling to himself when he happens upon a small clearing by the riverbank. And, within the stream, there’s the witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fighting a handful of naked winged mermaids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pauses at the edge of the fight, standing with wide eyes and a mind that has suddenly gone empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course the witcher’s fighting something like this. Why wouldn’t he be fighting something like this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment or so of staring, Jaskier blinks himself back to reality and takes a deep breath. He’s read about sirens before. That doesn’t entirely mean he’s ready to face them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nor, for that matter, is he ready to face the witcher. The butcher is less grimy this go around, his hair tied back as he does his best to keep away from the water, but there’s still something about him that strikes Jaskier in the chest. Something about how easily he swings his sword, how focused his attention is on his task. Something more than intimidating but less than terrifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher’s doing alright on his own, just a few sirens left until he’s killed them all or frightened them away. Still, Jaskier isn't quite so willing to give up his plans for a dramatic entrance. Spontaneity, after all, is treasured in a bard— even a fake one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thought he has— to toss himself towards one of the sirens in hopes that the witcher will save him again— is thrown out nearly immediately. It’d give him an excuse to follow the witcher around, claiming to be in his debt and all that, but Jaskier can’t get past the risk that the witcher will just, well, let him die. He doesn’t exactly enjoy the idea of getting too close to those fangs or claws.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the center of the fight, sirens circling with flapping wings and shrieking voices, the witcher continues his battle. Briefly, Jaskier considers just staying put and introducing himself later. However, there’s only one issue with that— the lack of dramatics, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, obviously, he only has one option left for making a good impression— saving the witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not precisely his favorite option but it has more advantages— and fun— than the others. If he can get in the witcher’s good graces, then he’s already one step closer to gaining his trust; if he can keep him alive long enough to divulge any secrets, even better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier reaches for his dagger as one of the sirens flies higher, angling her wings in a clear threat to swoop back down. Already, Jaskier plans how he can jump in the way, blade outstretched to catch her in the chest before she has the chance to sink her claws into the witcher. He begins to pull the dagger free but pauses when his wrist hits the back of the lute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. That’s a thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stills, his thoughts teetering dangerously on the edge of memory and nightmare. He refuses to blink, terrified of what he’ll see in the dark behind his eyes. His legs are uncertain beneath him, and he struggles to take a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought he’d have time to learn this. He’d have time to prepare himself for the inevitability of playing such a damned instrument again. The thing that had been in his grip each time his brothers ran off to practice their swordsmanship, the thing he’d held with blood-slicked hands when the witcher had cut his family down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been counting on little steps and small victories to pave the way to Posada. A few chords here, a few notes there— he’d be a bard by the time he reached the witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s feet stick to the ground, the earth trying to sink him in even as sirens scatter across the sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s already reached the witcher and he has his role to play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, you beasts!” His fear helps the volume of his voice, gaining the attention of the monsters circling the witcher. “Look over here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swings the lute to his front, tosses his hand over the strings and begins to play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s louder than it should be, an obnoxious collection of chords that barely fit together in a melody. It can’t be called playing, can’t be called music, can’t be called anything other than a distraction for sirens and the birds trying to flee their paths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s fine, though. After all, why focus on his music when there are monsters to defeat? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What began as a distraction, though, quickly becomes a battle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on!” He yells at the siren as she begins to shriek at him. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to prove to anyone that you’ve got a prettier singing voice than me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s well known that a siren’s voice is akin to an aphrodisiac, dragging sailors and other unfortunate travelers to their dooms with nothing more than a song. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Listening to this monster cry, though, Jaskier’s not too certain where anyone got that idea from. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her lips pull back in a crooked snarl, exposing a fish-like maw of fangs and blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier knows what she’s planning to do before she fully lunges at him; he sets the lute aside and reveals his dagger when she falls from the sky and aims for his throat with her claws.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go!” The witcher yells. “Run!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wasn’t fully expecting any advice from the mutant currently entangled with three more sirens. Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t take it. Instead, he ducks beneath the siren’s arms as she comes near him, turning to face her so he’s ready when she swings back down again. He lifts his dagger, hoping to catch her in the throat with it. She swerves at the last second, cutting across his arm as his blade hits nothing but air. Jaskier lets the force push him to the ground, folding his legs and keeping his momentum going as he twists onto his back and catches the siren by the wing when she lands on top of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her claws dig deep into his arms once again, tearing skin until he’s forced to drop his dagger in lieu of keeping his hold on her wing. He hadn’t been prepared for her to fight so frantically as he starts pulling the wing toward himself, but it only inspires him to tighten his grip, gritting his teeth as he does so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The siren spins and thrashes, jarring Jaskier as he plants his full weight into the ground, refusing to let himself be tossed about. The siren shrieks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier waits until she pulls back, preparing to plunge her nails into his chest, and then he </span>
  <em>
    <span>tugs</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a terrible ripping sound as the bones in the siren’s wing tear apart, snapping and popping as Jaskier pulls farther still. He forces it to the side, bones crunching beneath the skin. The siren screams— and, Melitele, if he thought the shrieks before were horrid, this is pure hell— and uses the entirety of her strength to pull away. She’s out of his reach but, at least, now, she can’t fly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the siren looks back at him, her eyes tell him exactly what her next plan is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her tail wraps around his legs and she turns towards the river, hissing and snarling as she crawls towards it. There are less sirens now that the witcher’s had one less to focus on, but a few turn towards their fallen sister, eyes curious as she pulls Jaskier towards the water, intent on drowning him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is not going to nearly drown twice in this witcher’s presence. He refuses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the siren’s back is turned, he grabs a nearby rock and tosses himself forward, bashing it against the side of her head. She howls and her tail loosens immediately, giving Jaskier the opening he needs to turn back for his dagger, his chance of survival increasing exponentially as the familiar weapon returns to his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stands, turning to rush back for the siren— only to watch as a silver blade swings low enough to take off her head, rolling and joining the bodies of the others that the witcher had finally taken out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pauses, feeling drained of all blood as he stares at the siren’s wide eyes, her mouth still parted in that horrible shriek. Dark blood stains the ground, flooding into the pale red of the river. It’ll wash away soon, but Jaskier grows sick at the sight of it. There’s a gaping wound across one siren’s throat behind the witcher; there’s the familiar scent of death hanging onto his sword.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shoves aside thoughts of his family, memories of a blood-soaked night; if he doesn’t, he’s certain he’ll be sick all over the witcher’s boots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He calms his breaths as the witcher comes closer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you,” the witcher says, and Jaskier’s eyes snap up to meet an amber gaze. “You’re the idiot from Oxenfurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed,” Jaskier says, bowing deeply and dramatically, hiding his face as he replaces his frightened expression with a friendlier one. A stupid smile and a raised eyebrow sit heavily upon his features when he glances back up. “Jaskier, your bard and savior, at your service. And you are?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witcher narrows his eyes, tipping his head to the side. “Geralt. Why are you here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>— that confirms the rumors about him being the butcher. Jaskier suppresses a shiver as he places his dagger back at his hip, unnoticed by the witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, glad you asked. You see, I was traveling down that road there and heard the unmistakable sounds of you being attacked. It’s one of those sounds you hear once and can never forget. Bad luck, by the way, being attacked so often. Twice is more than enough for me, personally.” Jaskier frowns at the blood seeping through the sleeve of his shirt, grimacing as he tugs the fabric from the torn skin. “However, let it not be said that I let a witcher in distress remain in, ah, distress. I decided to come to help you. And, lo and behold, help you I did. You’re incredibly welcome, I’m sure. After all, without my aid, you might have been killed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Geralt stares at him for a long moment then, without another word, lifts the siren's head and turns to walk away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on,” Jaskier complains. “Don’t ignore the man who just saved your life!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t save anything. You just bought me time,” Geralt says over his shoulder in a rumbling voice, a growling voice. He pauses, though, and Jaskier stares at the back of his head, wondering what the witcher’s thinking. “And you nearly got yourself killed in the process. Again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>rude</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jaskier scoffs to himself. He most certainly did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>almost get himself killed. He’s far more competent than the witcher gives him credit for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Jaskier can let Geralt know how good he is with a knife. What’s a bit of an idiot act compared to the rest of the plan? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jogs ahead of Geralt, turning to keep him from walking forward any farther. That smile’s back on Jaskier’s face, lopsided and too wide, stupid and foolish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Either way, you have to admit I helped,” he says, arms spread wide. Geralt hums again but he doesn’t disagree. Jaskier’s smile grows. “Now, why don’t we pack up that corpse thing and get some dinner. Some companionship to the nearest town is the least you can do to repay me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt rolls his eyes and walks past Jaskier with a grunt. Their arms brush briefly but neither of them moves away from the touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier grins, following Geralt back to the main road after collecting the lute, diverging only to fetch Pegasus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turns, Geralt’s walking away with the brown horse Jaskier saw before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn’t tell him to leave when Jaskier catches up, the sun beating down on their backs as they walk.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The town he follows Geralt to smells of ripe fruit and dry grass. Geralt hadn’t said much as Jaskier trailed after him, the latter smiling and joking even as the sky began to dim into early evening. Jaskier tripped on the rocky road, his senses muddied by the distraction of the fucking witcher beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention the fact that, honestly, he hadn’t expected to get this far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This far is the tavern table between them and the dinner bowls they’ve ordered. The stew’s no better than the smell, but Jaskier barely thinks of the taste as he keeps an eye on Geralt, waiting for the chance to give the pitch he’s practiced since buying the damned lute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt takes a drink of ale, finishes the last bit of his stew, and then looks towards the door as if hoping to leave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the chance Jaskier was looking for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, before you start going, don’t you want your question answered?” He asks, tapping his hands against the table between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt, miraculously, settles back down into his seat. “What question?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “The question about our fate-infused chance encounters. Or do you always leave behind the random strangers destiny throws in your way?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Destiny’s of no use to me,” Geralt says dryly, his expression not changing once. It’s rather impressive, honestly, and incredibly intimidating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, then, perhaps I can be,” Jaskier says, leaning forward a bit— enough to show his eagerness but not enough for Geralt to chop off his head. “Let me write songs about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s face twitches. Jaskier’s not entirely sure what it means but he goes with the assumption that he’s safe to continue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hear me out,” Jaskier continues. “I can follow along on your hunts to gather the details. From there, I can write magnificent songs of the heroic golden-eyed knight— or whatever name you want to go by, I’m not picky. Either way, it’ll fix your biggest problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what do you imagine that problem to be?” Geralt asks. “A surplus of monsters hiding in the roads I take?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No— But, yes, that is a problem, you shouldn’t want monsters to be such a consistency in your life, not if you wish to live a long life. Anyway, I’m talking about the problem that is your public image. The opinion people have about witchers.” Jaskier’s voice lowers, whispering as though sharing a secret. “Wouldn’t you rather be known as a hero than as a butcher? You’d have nothing to lose if a few songs about your good deeds get out, and everything to gain— including half the coin the songs would make, should they become as popular as I’m sure they could be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt narrows his eyes. Jaskier pulls back, smiling despite the certainty that Geralt’s thinking of the multiple ways he can kill him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it helps, I’ve proven that I can survive a fight,” Jaskier adds. “And that I’m willing to back you up, should you need it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t respond for a moment. A rather long moment. A moment long enough for Jaskier to wonder if he should give up and start looking for another witcher to trick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Geralt leans back and raises an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve never heard you play,” he says with a breath that’s almost a sigh. “How would you have the power to change anything if I’ve never heard of you until today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sputters at the insult, eyes wide and jaw dropped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I’m just getting started, thank you very much,” he snaps because, </span>
  <em>
    <span>honestly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, are witchers trained to be so harsh? “But, fine, okay, sure, you got me. I need you just as much as you need me because I don’t have any fun stories of my own to perform. There, I said it. Happy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rarely,” Geralt says. Jaskier can’t quite tell if the witcher is joking or not. Geralt shrugs and looks away. “You’re looking for something to pin your poor performances on, aren’t you? If people throw you out for performing songs about witchers, then you can pretend it’s not for your bad singing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier glares, his chest hot with the insult. Geralt speaks as if he doesn’t fully mean what he’s saying, but it’s hard to care about light-hearted teasing when the rest of Jaskier’s plan rests on Geralt accepting him as a bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I travel alone,” Geralt says, standing with another sigh. “Good luck with your songs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Geralt takes a step away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the moment between one step and the next, Jaskier goes taut. His muscles tighten and his breath catches in his throat, a threat that warns him of what will happen should he fail. The witcher will leave and Jaskier will be on his own, no one to return to because, Melitele help him, how can he return to his mother if he can’t properly avenge her family? Jaskier can see it now, the disappointment and the rage, the way she’d never trust him with something like this again. And, more than this, he can still see the look in her eyes as they ran from a burning home, can still see the blood sticking to his hands as though never washed away— under his nails and on his teeth and staining his clothes and coloring the broken lute and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier stands, a new lute caught in his trembling grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t look up as he plays a song he hasn’t played in years, his hands remembering the chords as though they’d been stitched into his fingertips. His grandmother’s lullaby, her favorite song— it’s her eyes that Jaskier sees as he opens his mouth to sing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a song for taverns or drinks, not a song for witchers or the men who plan to kill them. It’s more for little boys and frightened children, for simple nights and crowded homes. Jaskier plays the song with a ferocity it doesn’t deserve; he plays quick because he doesn’t have to feel the lute strings if he barely touches them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He only plays the first verse but, for him, that’s more than enough. Gods, he’s forgotten how his voice can soar, a thing he betrayed when he was in Oxenfurt and realized how a blade is so much more valuable than a song. But, here— in this tavern, with a lute in his hands and a witcher watching him with an indescribable face— Jaskier’s voice is all he has. And it’s a bird in his throat, pecking at his gums, leaving feathers on his tongue as he sings of dreams taking wing, of sons becoming kings. His voice rises with each word, higher and higher until his feet can’t feel the floor, until he’s almost afraid of his head skimming the tavern’s ceilings. Music traps him in its net, arrows in each note redirecting back at his own chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sings, and the song tastes of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier slides away from the table as the verse nears its close, turning the gentle tones into growls and sharp edges. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt stands before him, watching as Jaskier ends the song with a snapping of the last lyric’s note, cutting it short and leaving the room on the edge of a breath not yet taken. In the background, people applaud and mutter about the unexpected bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the back of his mind, he swears they’re calling him ‘bird.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t care what they say, walking forward until he’s in Geralt’s space yet again. He has nothing more to say to him, nothing more to give. His grandmother’s song waits in the air, and it’s like she’s standing behind Jaskier, whispering his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Julian, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hears her say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Have you figured things out yet on your own?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt finally moves, shrugging. “Is it your song?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is it his? Jaskier’s throat tightens. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. You’re good,” Geralt says, but it doesn’t have the presence of praise behind it— just a fact— and Jaskier doesn’t know how he feels about that. “Probably be better if you had your own music, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier knows he should smile, knows that’s the next part to play in this unwritten script, but it feels wrong when there’s the weight of his family’s murder upon him. He settles on a neutral expression, only halfway grinning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” He asks. “And are you willing to help me with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt huffs a laugh but he doesn’t say no. He folds his arms but he doesn’t say no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s smile becomes just a bit more genuine, spreading across his face like butter over warm bread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, then,” he says. “I look forward to working with you, Geralt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes, Jaskier can tell he’s dreaming because the edges vibrate— the details shake. Sometimes, Jaskier can tell he’s dreaming because he knows that certain things are better than his life will ever be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes, though, he opens his eyes into a nightmare, and it’s as real as anything else in his world.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier’s dream begins with music. He winces before he’s fully aware that he’s the one playing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s back home— in Lettenhove, that place he knew for a handful of years but still misses like a loved one. That agony is still in his chest as he performs for his family, their familiar figures seated around him in the main hall as he plays and sings and laughs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s empty inside. He’s not quite sure why.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His brothers joke and make up names, teasing him for the romantic song he’s playing. Some tavern tune he’d learned some years ago, the words dancing across his tongue the same way he twirls around the room, winking at his mother as she claps and cheers him on. She smiles at him, as warm as any sun— twice as bright, thrice as kind.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then, some voice he can’t place, a voice that causes the ground to shudder, a voice that pins his feet to the floor: “Play the one of the White Wolf!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier pauses, looking at his family with a new frown interrupting his song.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t know the white wolf.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His grandmother sitting before him, still smiling and saying his name— Julian, Julian, Julian— even as blood begins to drip from her grinning lips. There’s a crack— the sound of her spine snapping— but she’s still sitting as though nothing’s happened, even as her weight shifts unnaturally to the side.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier drops his lute, backing away. A familiar scene plays out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A dark-haired witcher with a large steel sword, fire in his eyes. Jaskier’s brothers laughing through the gaping wounds on their necks, heads tossed back so their slit throats are more their mouths than their lips. His father stands to the side; he steps forward slowly, a sword shoving through his chest until it’s nothing more than a hole through which Jaskier can see the witcher’s horrible eyes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No,” Jaskier breathes. He can’t hear his own voice, can’t feel his own whispers amidst this horror. “No, stop.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The witcher looks up, Tess’ head in his hands like a trophy, her mouth gaping open like a siren caught in its last desperate cry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Will you stop me with your lute, boy?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier knows he can’t stop him, at all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s fire and there’s blood and there are people cheering and laughing and saying his name— Julian Julian Julian— </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And Jaskier turns, letting the cries hit his back like stones; Jaskier turns, only to see another witcher blocking his path.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Geralt,” Jaskier says. He can’t say anything else; he can’t think anything else.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And he can’t move as Geralt’s sword goes through his chest— shoving and shoving and shoving until Jaskier’s sure it can’t go any farther, until he feels the point protrude from the other side.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Geralt, please. Stop this,” Jaskier chokes, spattering Geralt’s face with blood. “Geralt—”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But the witcher only kills.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier smiles as Geralt meets him in the stables the next morning. Geralt pauses, seeming surprised that Jaskier’s still around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you so happy about?” Geralt asks once he’s recovered. Jaskier rolls his eyes, offended that Geralt would consider Jaskier so untrustworthy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,” he says. Geralt takes a step towards him. He’s aiming for his horse, but Jaskier’s heart rate picks up, palms sweaty around the strap of his lute case. Still, he takes a deep breath and pins a smile to his face as he walks up to Geralt’s side. “So, who is this beautiful beast? Do witchers get a specific breed of horse? Do you train them in magic, too? Does she have a name or—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horse turns her head, nipping at Jaskier. Only a quick jump back keeps him from losing his nose to the horse’s teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt, of course, does nothing to help, seemingly lost in thought as Jaskier huffs about the horse’s rude manners.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And to think I considered buying sugar cubes for her— just for her!” Jaskier pouts, turning away. “You really should work on your horse’s people skills, it’s no wonder people are running around thinking the worst of witchers when, really, it’s all their horses—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roach doesn’t trust you,” Geralt cuts in, an eyebrow raised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier does his best not to blanch. “I--I— What? Excuse me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt shrugs, walking past Jaskier to start packing his things back onto Roach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not many people approach her,” he explains. “So she doesn’t trust you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Jaskier glares at Roach. Leave it to a horse to catch onto his ploy. “Of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take it too personally,” Geralt says. “Not everyone can like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh-ho, but they can!” Jaskier says, puffing his chest out. “Just give me and Roach some time, will you? I’ve yet to meet a girl who doesn’t love me. It’s not Roach’s fault she hasn’t really gotten to know me yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not much for Jaskier to continue the conversation with but, he knows, he would’ve cut himself off anyway once Geralt reaches for Roach’s nose. It’s almost as if he intends to pet her, but that can’t be right. Witchers have hands made for swords, for weapons and monster heads. Roach may be rude but she’s still just a simple animal, unaware that the thing reaching out for her is—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gentle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier blinks, stepping back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt is so… </span>
  <em>
    <span>gentle.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He strokes Roach’s nose with a soft touch. The horse seems familiar with the act, nudging closer into Geralt’s palm with a sniffling sound. Jaskier watches, waiting for the moment where the scene changes. Because it must change— shouldn’t it? But moments pass and Jaskier presses down on his tongue lightly with his teeth to keep from saying something stupid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt mutters to Roach, ignoring Jaskier’s presence entirely as he extends the petting up to her ears. Jaskier does his best to pretend he doesn’t hear the phrase “idiot bard” but he huffs all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost a shame that Geralt’s a witcher. With the morning light casting in from the sides of the stables, coating Geralt in its warmth and glow, he’s almost handsome. There’s something about the careless tied back nature of his hair, pale strands stroking his neck where certain parts have been left loose. And, from his neck, Jaskier’s eyes trail up to the strong jaw, the prominent cheekbones, the focus of his amber eyes. He’s muscle and armor and, if Jaskier ignores the scary swords strapped to his back, he’s almost human. But there are stains of blood on his clothes, scars that can only come from monsters striking across his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun shifts— perhaps a cloud goes over it— and Jaskier turns his gaze away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pegasus and I will meet you in front of the inn when you’re ready,” he says, proud of the certainty in his voice. Geralt doesn’t say anything, but Jaskier assumes he’s heard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, a few moments after Jaskier’s saddled Pegasus and led him outside the stables, Geralt walks out with Roach. He says nothing, barely looking Jaskier’s way as he leads them out of town.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jaskier smiles all the same, following with a new lightness in his body. He sticks to Geralt’s side, dog-dumb, and feels his family’s revenge begin to unfold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within a week of traveling on the roads, Jaskier falls in love with the world outside of Oxenfurt. He’d known, logically, how far the sky can stretch; somehow, though, he never truly comprehended its expanse until he’d watched the sun rise over the edge of a distant horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the same time, though, he’s terrified. Each step he takes with Geralt is a step further from his home, from his mother, from everything he’s ever known as safe. The first time Geralt had declared they’d be camping outside— tucked into the trees with howls and snarls hidden in the dark— Jaskier had thrown a small fit. He had packed his most brightly colored clothing in order to make an impression, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>to roll around in mud and dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Geralt hadn’t listened, telling Jaskier that he was free to leave whenever he liked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier spends about three days trying to convince Geralt of the benefits of inns and taverns, often resorting to his role as a bard and his supposed job to play in such establishments. It’s not an argument Geralt listens to and, if Jaskier’s honest with himself, it’s not an argument he expects to win. His fingers still burn from when they’d last touched the lute strings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they continue their journey, Jaskier keeps the case hanging over his shoulder, but he never takes the lute itself out. Geralt glances over every so often, an eyebrow raised when Jaskier readjusts the instrument with a slight huff, but he never asks to hear anything from it. Jaskier would worry about seeming suspicious, but he doesn’t need music in order to play the part of a bard. All he needs are songs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In one of their few treks through a small village— Geralt off collecting his coin for the nekkers he’d killed— Jaskier stops in the market for a few supplies: a notebook and something with which to write. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A journal for his songs, he tells Geralt with a proud smile, and a quill for his thoughts. Geralt says something snarky about it being a diary, but Jaskier’s too smug to let it bother him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he doesn’t fill the pages with lyrics or rhymes like the witcher thinks; no, he writes about Geralt in another way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pens notes about things that Geralt lets slip, small hints at secrets when he mutters about needing stronger armor in certain places or when he mentions how cats run from him. They’re random facts and thoughtless things, but Jaskier writes them down all the same. One day, he’s sure he’ll find something that matters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s closer to that goal when he starts describing the potions Geralt keeps in his pack, eyeing them whenever Geralt pulls them out before a hunt, wondering what they do and why Geralt needs them. He’s not brave enough yet to handle them himself, but he draws them in small sketches, little pictures lining the blank spaces around the questions he’s waiting for Geralt to answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Other pictures, too, start making their way into the book. A few images of Geralt’s features, the corners covered in scrawlings of his eyes or lips or hands. It’s all research, of course; Jaskier needs to study the witcher’s anatomy as well as his mind— or, at least, that’s what he tells himself whenever he adds another sketch of Geralt into his book, right next to the fake lyrics he puts down. And, if a few of those lyrics are worthy of becoming a song, he keeps it to himself. All part of the act, he thinks. All part of a bigger lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, there are other uses for the paper he buys. Namely, he keeps a few pages in the back blank so he can write letters to his mother, updating her on where they are and what he’s learned. He only has the chance to send one letter near the end of the first week, secretly passed off to a town’s messenger to let her know of Geralt’s current plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells her that they’re traveling to Posada. He tells her of the few hunts and contracts he’s already seen. He describes the witcher in the best ways he can— as something intense, something vehement, something beyond common sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He promises to fully steal Geralt’s secrets before the end of the season.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few days after Jaskier sends the letter, Geralt leads them to an inn for the night. They’d crossed the border into Aedirn earlier that day, arriving in a small trading town by the time the sky’s begun darkening. Jaskier discovers they only stopped for the night due to vampire rumors— rumors Geralt pursues without Jaskier— but he takes advantage of the hospitality all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once Geralt’s gone to kill the vampire— a bruxa taking refuge in an abandoned home outside of town— Jaskier pulls out his notebook and begins his second letter while alone in their room.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear mother, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he writes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll be as offended as I to hear that the witcher still considers me too vulnerable to bring along on his more exciting hunts. I intend to change this perception— as soon as I learn how to make a bard seem competent in a fight.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s almost funny how easy it is to speak to his mother when it’s with words written a kingdom away. In person, Jaskier never knows how Zuzanna will react to his statements. In writing, at least, he’s safe from her wrath should he say the wrong thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, unfortunately, this letter feels filled to the brim with the wrong things. Nothing but notes she’s already heard before, nothing but the reassurance that Geralt has decided to put up with him. All good news for a first letter but, Melitele help him, he wants to say something important. Something more than </span>
  <em>
    <span>“We’ll be in Posada soon, and I’ll let you know as soon as Geralt tells me where we’ll be going next…”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still following the witcher. That was alright when Jaskier wasn’t sure he’d survive a night without waking to a knife in his throat but, now, he needs something more. He needs to be at his side, not simply one step behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier looks up from his writing, his gaze falling on the lute case propped against the wall beside him. His jaw tightens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fucking useless, all of this. He’s always been a bit useless, though, hasn’t he? Skipping combat classes to sit with his grandmother instead, learning to handle a lute rather than a sword or bow. Practicing chords instead of defense, singing ditties and lullabies instead of saying something of any worth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Useless</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s no wonder his mother’s always shown such favor to Valdo fucking Marx. He, at least, has always known what’s important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Valdo’s not the one waiting for a witcher to return to his room, is he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier stands, tossing aside the notebook and frustration. It’s better to be calm, rational. It’s better to focus on what he can do now to fix the things he didn’t do back then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He starts by grabbing the lute case and tossing it onto the bed, taking the lute out to feel the case. It’s made of good wood, sturdy and thick. There’s a small pocket in the back where he imagines extra strings or sheet music should go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sticks his fingers inside, humming to himself as he stretches it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier still wants to play the part of the stupid bard, pulling Geralt along with meaningles smiles and rambling tangents. He knows his excitement confuses the witcher, knows that Geralt doesn’t think much of a man made of music and nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he also knows that Geralt’s not an idiot. He’s seen the way he watches the dagger tucked along Jaskier’s hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s blood and bones scream for vengeance of a brutal kind, of wounds and murder as terrible as those marking his history. He pulls his dagger free and, for a moment, he breathes in the idea of losing the blade between the vertebrates of Geralt’s spne.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he thinks of the freedom that’s promised if he shows just a touch more patience— if he waits until he knows he can do the same to any witcher in his path. Geralt is a means to an end; he’s not the end itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In order to gain Geralt’s trust— something greater than his companionship or company— he can’t let any traces of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Julian </span>
  </em>
  <span>show. He must become Jaskier, entirely. Why hadn’t he realized it before? It’s a simple solution and, as he tucks the dagger and brooch into the lute case’s hidden pocket, his body thrums with the thrill of becoming someone new. He’s had a taste of who Jaskier can be, felt it when he smiled at Geralt or hummed silly songs. Each second of Jaskier has made him light, nearly lifted him from the ground and into the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trusts that it’s Geralt who’ll catch the inevitable fall back towards the terror that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Julian</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s still thinking this, putting his lute and the case away, when Geralt stomps into the room, reeking of blood and gore. Jaskier turns quickly, his nose instantly wrinkling at the stench.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt watches him, quiet, and then narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right now?” Jaskier’s voice pitches up at the accusation but he doesn’t let it stick for long, flapping his hands in Geralt’s general direction. “Right now, I’m facing down a gut-covered witcher. Go on, get in the tub. I refuse to let this go on any longer than it needs to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt raises an eyebrow, glancing over at where a bath had been brought up and filled. There’s a question in his eyes— the realization that Jaskier had called the bath for himself only to give it up within a moment of Geralt’s arrival— but he doesn’t say any of it out loud. Jaskier’s rather grateful for the lack of conversation around the matter. He’s uncertain how well Geralt would take it if Jaskier had to speak honestly about how bad he smells.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Geralt begins to undress and Jaskier turns away quickly, growing red at the thought of other things he might be honest about should the witcher ask. He busies himself with packing away his notebook and other belongings, digging out his night clothes with a gentle breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the soft sound of splashing, though, that gives him pause. He glances over his shoulder, only partially worried that Geralt has drowned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he actually sees is somehow more confusing than even that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are—” Jaskier stops and tries again. “What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t turn his stare away from the wall, his hands still rubbing vigorously at his hair. “Cleaning. Like you asked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re—” Jaskier shuts his mouth. Geralt seems more intent on tearing layers from his scalp than he does on getting the actual goop and mud out of his hair. “I don’t know what to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a worrying concept,” Geralt says. Jaskier takes one moment to mentally puzzle over Geralt’s sense of humor but, eventually, he focuses on the bigger issue— the way Geralt’s using the provided inn soap to work out the tangles in his hair. Suds sit upon the top of his head, a crown of bubbles around his scalp he doesn’t seem aware of. He looks away from Jaskier, fixed on working out a rather nasty knot at the back of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My gods, Geralt,” Jaskier finally gives in, rolling his sleeves up and reaching for the small bucket that was brought with the bath. His own oils and shampoos are laid out beside it, left there from when Jaskier had hoped he’d have a chance to indulge. Now, though, he lathers his hands with his favorite chamomile scent, fills up the bucket, and gets to work doing what Geralt won’t. Already, the gentle scent eases the building tension he’d felt upon witnessing Geralt’s attempts at washing. “Hopefully, this allows you to see why destiny has shoved us together. You’ve been on your own for how long and you don’t know how to properly wash your hair? I bet you’ve never cleaned behind your ears, either. I tremble at the thought of your nails, as well! Fear not. From now on, I will keep you in tip-top shape. Cleanliness is close to godliness, after all, and— Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier tuts as he pours another bucket of water over Geralt’s head. Jaskier’s shampoos aren’t necessarily meant for tangles or knots, but the kinder soap helps ease the process as Jaskier works through the mess, brushing his fingers through the pale hair and trying very hard not to think about the goop that comes free against his palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt freezes beneath his hands, acting as though Jaskier’s holding a knife to his throat rather than a washrag. Really, he’s like a child, all tense and preferring to be as dirty as possible. Jaskier rolls his eyes, using the rag to wipe away the harsher clumps of gore stuck to the back of Geralt’s neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, this will be easier on both of us if you just relax,” Jaskier says, wringing out the rag and setting it aside. “Baths are supposed to be enjoyable, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Comfort’s not really my first priority when it comes to bathing,” Geralt says, the words rougher than usual. Jaskier hums to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at Oxenfurt, Valdo would tease Jaskier relentlessly for his habit of indulging in far too many baths. He’d stock up on as many oils and salts and soaps as he could afford, staining their tubs with the scent of flowers and other plants. Even his mother would watch him strangely, confusion marking her features each time his eyes lit up at the suggestion of a bath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His first bath at Oxenfurt had been to clean the blood and sweat from his little body. But, as the years went by, it was used to wash away stress and tension— however temporarily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’ve clearly got the wrong priorities, then.” Without thinking, Jaskier settles his hands over Geralt’s shoulders, the warm muscles barely giving underneath his touch. He presses his thumbs into the tighter places, rubbing circles until they begin to loosen. Geralt stays still and silent beneath him, allowing Jaskier’s hands to travel towards the spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pauses, though, when he spots a cut peeking out from beneath the water, stretching diagonally across Geralt’s lower back. It’s a shallow gash, already closing, but the edges prickle with a swollen red coloring, a harsh shade placed against the rest of Geralt’s skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s thumb brushes the furthest corner of the cut, his eyebrows furrowing together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt stays put, even as Jaskier runs his fingers around the outline of the wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost looks poisoned. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Jaskier didn’t realize witchers could bleed so easily. He wasn’t aware they could be hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Geralt’s an exception..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or perhaps humans don’t realize witchers aren’t immortal, despite their stories,” Geralt says. Jaskier hadn’t realized he’d been speaking out loud, murmuring his confusion to himself. Jaskier’s mouth clicks closed, heat rising to his cheeks at having been caught; it’s no matter, as Geralt continues speaking, anyway. “Poison doesn’t work against certain vampires and, I’m guessing, the townsfolk learned that the hard way. She had a stash of their poisoned weapons, used one against me when she got desperate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lightly presses his fingertips to the edge of the wound, barely feeling the heat coming off Geralt’s back. A wound on a witcher— it feels like a paradox.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he speaks, Jaskier’s voice is but a thought— a low breath rumbling through his throat. “Can it kill you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It leaves his tongue like a blade, as obvious and as dangerous. But Geralt keeps his back turned, his muscles loosening under Jaskier’s touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grunts, vaguely exasperated— exasperated, but not suspicious. “Witchers have slower heartbeats so it didn’t spread fast enough to take effect. And I have a potion that will rid me of the poison so I’ll be fine. But if I didn’t have it? Then, yes, Jaskier. It would be possible for a witcher to die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Jaskier says, his voice soft. He imagines he feels a pulse beneath his fingers, feels blood in Geralt’s body pressing back into his touch. “I’ve never heard that before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one’s gotten close enough to a witcher to find out,” Geralt says. And it’s just a simple statement, just on the edge of a joke, but—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It reminds Jaskier that he’s touching a witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier fights down the sudden urge to pull back, forcing a calm steadiness into his hands when he pulls away from the cut. Geralt may be a strange witcher but he’s a witcher nonetheless; he’s a witcher like the one who tore Jaskier’s family apart, like the monster who stalks his dreams and laughs at his fears. For a moment, Jaskier sees blood on Geralt’s hands, hears a mocking tone in his ear whispering that </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s taking everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier folds his hands into his lap and takes a poised breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” he says. His eyes stray to the notebook he’d tucked away, to the half-written letter meant for his mother. “Good thing you have an antidote, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt offers nothing but another grunt, sitting with his back to Jaskier as Jaskier blots away his fear, standing and declaring Geralt cleaned enough for the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is where we part ways, bard. For good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s words pull Jaskier away from the sick feeling in his gut, leftover fear from their capture by the elves. He looks at Geralt, eyebrows furrowed together as fear shifts into a heavy worry of being left behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promised to change the public’s tune about you,” he says, pulling free his notebook and opening to a blank page. “At least allow me to try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt says nothing more as they travel back to the town, Jaskier rambling about the ballad he’ll sing for the Devil of Posada even as he writes something completely different. He tries to keep to the facts, searching through his memory for anything important Geralt might have let slip while bargaining with Filavandrel, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, Jaskier finds himself writing random phrases as they near the town, scowling at words like </span>
  <em>
    <span>wiped out your pest, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend of humanity</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>toss a coin to your witcher, oh—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Jaskier?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier glances up, blinking at the young man standing before him. A quick look around informs Jaskier that they’ve made it back to the town, Geralt watching him with a question in his gaze as he dismounts from Roach. Pegasus had been left behind for this adventure, Jaskier more than happy to follow along on foot, but, as the messenger lifts a small yellow envelope, he wishes he had his reliable steed to ride away on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, that’s me,” he says with only a small amount of hesitation. The boy nods, passing over the envelope and telling him how it came to the town while Geralt and Jaskier were out. A letter from Oxenfurt. A letter for him. A letter that spins Jaskier’s chest in circles with something he refuses to call dread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, good, yeah,” Jaskier says to himself, looking down at the familiar scrawling of his name, written in his mother’s small handwriting— tight letters with sharp turns, the ink dark and denting the page. He runs his thumb over the place where his name has nearly left a tear in the envelope, letting out a long breath before looking up into Geralt’s eyes. He forces a smile onto his face, waving the envelope with an exaggerated amount of indifference. “We’re not done negotiating my position as your travel companion. You go clean up and do whatever it is witchers do to unwind after a particularly exciting hunt. I’ll be in the tavern. Something tells me I’m going to need a lot of alcohol to put up with what’s in this thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like most things when it comes to his mother, everything’s a blur— everything outside of the letter in his hand and her voice in his head, the susurrus of his name as he orders a drink and collapses into a seat in the darkest corner of the room. He bites his lip and toys with the edges of the letter, wasting time he knows he doesn’t have. Geralt didn’t seem to really mean it when he’d said that thing about parting ways for good, and Jaskier knows there was more than casual curiosity in his gaze when he’d seen Jaskier’s letter. Likely, Geralt will collect their things from the inn and then come find Jaskier; he’ll ask without asking what Jaskier’s read.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Jaskier doesn’t have time to feed into his irrational fears. If his hands shake as he peels the envelope open, he blames it on the excitement he’s already faced today.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dearest Jaskier, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his mother begins the letter, and he scoffs at the tenderness appointed to a name not truly his, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you would not believe the pride I felt upon hearing that you’ve befriended the witcher. You’ve done well. I look forward to the rest of our plan going as smoothly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a short letter, and it carries on in a similar vein— praising Jaskier for performing his duty correctly, reiterating things he already knows about what’s left to be done. She says she expects more news from him— more frequently, if possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, in the last paragraph, she mentions Valdo Marx’s name.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve assigned Valdo some research of his own, and you’d be interested to hear of what he’s discovered in the past week alone. Your witcher seems to have a safe haven— a place known only as Kaer Morhen. As of yet, we know not where this is, but I trust that you— orValdo— will be able to find the location. Your aid in Valdo’s research would be greatly appreciated. Why don’t you—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier tosses the letter down without finishing it. He downs the rest of his drink, grimacing at the strength of the ale, and gestures for another glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course Valdo would find a way to take over Jaskier’s plot. A plot that Jaskier’s risking his life for— not Valdo, sitting safely in some library or hall. Jaskier’s the one who’s been preparing for this, the one who’s been trailing after Geralt like some lost dog. It’s almost enough to make him quit— almost, but not quite. He’s not a total traitor and, unlike Valdo, he actually has a reason to follow through with this scheme.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, though, his only plan is to drink away the burning frustration sinking its claws into his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The barmaid brings another drink. He tosses her a handful of coins— he doesn’t look to see how many— and sweetly asks her to bring over the whole damn demijohn of vodka. It’ll mix horribly with the ale he’d just finished but, well, a headache is better than a mind full of his mother’s disappointing words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People come and go through the tavern, and Jaskier loses track of how many pass him by. There are so many— too many; they’re too loud and too busy, too certain their own troubles are the greatest there are to face. A barmaid bemoans a stain on her skirts. An old man rubs his eyes and yawns, half-awake. A white-haired witcher slips inside and frowns at Jaskier, amber eyes finding him within an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t bother pretending he’s not here, smiling politely when Geralt sits across from him at the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t think you meant it when you said you’d need a drink for that,” Geralt says, nodding towards the letter still gripped in Jaskier’s hand. “Who was it from? A scorned lover?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier scoffs, the action paining his throat. Ah, yes, the life of a bard. How much easier it would be to answer a woman announcing his bastard child, how much simpler to apologize for leaving a young man behind after an affair. He’d joked about this life to Geralt, smirking and saying every expected cliche of a bard. If he was smart, he’d joke again, now,  and that would be that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a bright red flame on the edges of his vision though, coming up from his blood and bleeding into his head. He takes a drink of vodka and steadies himself for what he knows will be a mistake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” he says. “It’s from my mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt raises an eyebrow. It’s incredibly anticlimactic. Maybe that’s why Jaskier leans forward and digs himself deeper into this hole of terrible confessions. He knows better than to share secrets, but his tongue can’t seem to rid itself of such tempting mistakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother is all I’ve had for nearly all my life. There was an… an accident when I was young, and I lost the rest of my family to it. It was terrible and tragic and truly nightmare-fuelling, we don’t need to talk about it.” Because even referencing it has Jaskier breathing in smoke, has him choking on the thick bitterness of blood. He burns it away with a long drink of vodka, ignoring Geralt’s eyes on him the entire time. “You would think something like that would bring us closer together. That it’d be me and her against the world, the last survivors of our broken family. Hah! As if! Because there’s this other asshole involved and he’s bad enough on his own, but it’s like my mother’s adopted the bastard. Like I’m not enough as her son. Like… Hell, like I had the chance to be her son and failed, and now I’m competing against this other man who’s better at being her son than I ever was.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier watches Geralt’s medallion because he can’t bring himself to watch his eyes, can’t bring himself to see the pity or judgment that surely must be there. And the silver chain and wolf soothe him as a familiar face soothes a child away from home. It grounds him, reminds him of where he is and who he’s supposed to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your music,” Geralt says, pausing Jaskier’s hand as it reaches for his drink again. “Who encouraged you to pursue that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hand curls almost automatically, already used to the feeling of a lute against his palm, already itching to try the new one gifted to him by an elven king. It’s not quite the same feeling he had when he was younger and soaring on his own made-up notes, but it’s close enough. Close enough to feel the sky but not enough to become it. Close enough to remind him how he once was while simultaneously laughing at him for such foolish beliefs. Because he’s no bard; he’s just drunk and thinking of lullabies to distract from the litany of his mother speaking of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Valdo Marx and Valdo Marx and Valdo Marx and— </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“My grandparents,” he admits in a soft voice. He drops his gaze to the table, pretends he’s just talking to himself. It was something he used to do when he was a child in Oxenfurt, terrified of forgetting who he was before blood and terror came into his life. He hasn’t done it in a while; he knows who Julian is, and he knows who he’s supposed to be. “I was lucky when I was younger. The baby of the family, I’m sure you can tell. So I was free to escape any responsibilities, and my grandmother told me I could be a bard.” He interrupts himself with a choked laugh, running a finger around the dampened rim of his glass. “Now, I carry every expectation and weight that my older brothers should have had, and none of the preparations for it. Lucky me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Geralt hums and Jaskier’s eyes flick up without his mind’s permission, taking in the witcher’s thoughtful face. Geralt’s not quite looking at him, his gaze more distant as he thinks. “I understand the feeling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier narrows his eyes, blurring with the sound of Geralt’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You? With all your powers and quests and freedoms to roam wherever you like— You understand how this feels?” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter, but Geralt smiles wryly all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some people call it destiny but, really, it’s just bullshit chances and shitty luck. Sometimes that’s an ultimatum, sometimes it’s a terrible prophecy. Doesn’t really matter what it is, just that it affects us whether we like it or not,” Geralt says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “And, in this case, it’s my mother forcing her will upon my own, at the cost of her own son’s happiness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mothers,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier’s drink and looking into the vodka inside, “are good at that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother wasn’t always,” Jaskier says as Geralt takes a drink from Jaskier’s glass. “Ah, good at that, I mean. She wasn’t cruel or callous. She was my biggest fan, for a while. And I know she loved me. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have saved me from—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier cuts off, the red in the room intensifying into a hideous dark— blood and dirt coating over Jaskier’s eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt, though, doesn’t pry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good you have a mother,” Geralt says. It’s an obvious statement but, when Geralt says it, it feels like something more. Jaskier’s uncertain why, but something in Geralt’s voice hurts his heart. “It’s even better that you have good memories with her that you can hold onto.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Jaskier says, propping his head on his hand. He watches as Geralt falls silent again, the witcher nodding as though proud of himself for saying more than two words in this conversation. The thought makes Jaskier laugh— small giggles that bubble over into full-body chuckles, rocking his body forward into the table. “It’s my first time being all on my own. My first time ever leaving home and the only friend I have is—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A witcher?” Geralt asks, his lips curving in some ironic grin. It’s sharp but not half as sharp as Jaskier feels it could be. It’s funny, he realizes; he’s never seen Geralt smile cruelly enough to know. Something presses deep into Jaskier’s skin, something as light as the shadow of a cloud passing over him. His laughter continues, fading into something soft as he considers Geralt’s words— as he considers Geralt’s presence here, drinking with a bard and talking about his past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was actually going to say a mute,” he finally says. “But, yeah. Witcher works, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier smiles to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Geralt laughs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s small— a tiny wonder, a huff of breath twisting through the air in a sound Jaskier hadn’t considered ever coming from a witcher before. It draws Jaskier’s eyes back up to him, watching as Geralt chuckles lightly and then drinks the rest of Jaskier’s vodka.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Jaskier opens his mouth, he means to accuse Geralt of stealing his drink. He means to make a joke of it, to move on and forget this conversation happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, some other stupid piece of sentiment slips out from between his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t deny we’re friends,” he says. It may be because he’s watching closely, but he swears he sees Geralt’s eyes widen— a fraction, barely enough to mean anything, but Jaskier holds onto it all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt sets the cup down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re drunk. You should go back to the inn. Get some sleep. We’re leaving early tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Geralt stands and walks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier watches, his jaw dropped and his mouth dry. There’s still that tint of red-brown in his sight, still that fire beneath his skin, but he can’t ignore the way it slinks away from Geralt as he walks off. Jaskier’s chest twists in some strange manner, and he forces himself to ignore it before it begins to burn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a ridiculous conversation,” he says to himself, shaking his head as he collects the letter and stands. “What the hell am I supposed to do with any of that?”</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some absolutely LOVELY art in this chapter-- again, provided by Calyssmarviss &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Things become… complicated. Not that things weren’t complicated before, what with the lying and the scheming and the constant fear of being found out, but that was before the added weight of whatever he’s supposed to call this. More often than he’d like, Jaskier finds his stomach knitted into a rather impolite knot; Geralt’s caught him frowning down at his bellybutton, something Jaskier’s refused to explain to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that he explains much now that he’s already broken his oath of silence about the past, speaking about Zuzanna and Valdo and all of his other problems out loud. It’s a wonder Geralt didn’t spear him through with his blade just for being so damn vulnerable— Melitele knows his mother would never let him hear the end of such sentimental foolishness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to backtrack the best he can, keeping his tongue between his teeth as they travel so he doesn’t slip and start rambling again. He keeps away from alcohol, shuddering when he recalls how easily it had loosened his lips last time. Just shut up and stick to the plan— it should be easy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Geralt, though, Jaskier discovers that very little is easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, rather, it’s all a bit too easy. Too easy to smile and say good night to Geralt as they tuck into their bedrolls, the gently cooling embers of the fire between them. Too easy to look over his shoulder and make sure Geralt’s seeing the same sunrise as they ready for the day, too easy to wonder about Geralt’s favorite colors or foods. It’s easy to joke, to laugh, to tease and roll his eyes and be this person he’s allowed to pretend to be. And Geralt believes it all with his own grunts and scoffs, his surprisingly witty retorts and his raised eyebrows at Jaskier’s antics. At Geralt’s side, with Geralt accepting every word he says, Jaskier can pretend he’s this talented and reckless bard, this smiling fool with no worry left in the world. At Geralt’s side, something within Jaskier burns, warm and present and alive; it’s less a lie and more a dream, a hint of someone he nearly believes he can be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s when Jaskier’s alone that he reminds himself of where his loyalties lie. He thinks of a name he hasn’t felt in years— he digs his heels into blood-stained memories and thinks of who he is beneath the colors and carelessness of a make-believe bard. Geralt travels with the freedom of a stormcloud crossing the sky; Jaskier, then, is the dust in the breeze, not yet understanding that this independence isn’t his own. The letters to his mother dwindle into barely anything as he loses track of where they are or where they’ll be next. After Posada, Geralt doesn’t mention any specific towns or kingdoms. Jaskier’s lost in the wind; it’s almost as terrifying as the way Geralt carries the same strength as the monster who killed Jaskier’s family, a fact Jaskier notes whenever Geralt swings his blade or tosses a monster across a clearing as though it’s nothing to him. Almost as terrifying as the same dark armor, the same scowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But nothing’s quite as terrifying as the ways Geralt’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>like the murder-witcher. The way Geralt listens to Jaskier’s stories, the way he takes roads big enough for both their horses, the way he agrees that the flowers by their camp are beautiful. Jaskier’s never seen someone smile quite so genuinely at one of his jokes before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These moments leave a flame across Jaskier’s lips when he thinks of them, trailing into his throat with a burn that scorches through his guts. Like smoke, it’s a haze over what he knows as fact and fiction, what he knows is right and wrong; his mother’s voice blurs with Geralt’s laughter. For this reason, he tries not to think about all the ways Geralt’s not like a witcher. Because if Geralt’s not like a witcher, then what does Jaskier know of witchers? What does he know of anything other than what he saw as a child and what he’s been taught since then?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fears that, if he thinks of it for long, he may lose himself entirely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, when Geralt leaves to catch their dinner during camp one night, Jaskier lets his eyes fall onto the pack hanging from Roach’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His notebook’s propped open in his lap again, this time so he can read through the notes from the past few weeks. He’s learned more about Geralt’s potions— most notably after having watched him down a vial of Cat one night and blink open terrible black eyes— and has done his best to note the names and uses of each one. They’re not as exciting as he’d hoped they would be, nothing more than antidotes or aids for healing, but it’s something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something, he hopes, that could prove more useful than Valdo’s search for a secret witcher lair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sighs and puts the notebook away. In his mother’s last letter, she’d mentioned that Jaskier should start paying attention to opportunities in which he could get rid of the witcher— “just in case.” He supposes now would be as good a time as any. Walk up to Roach and steal his potions, leaving him susceptible to the next venomous monster attack. But then what? Drag the corpse back to Oxenfurt? Besides, it’s not like Zuzanna said to kill Geralt now, only to be aware of moments where he could. Most likely, she’s planning something Jaskier’s not yet privy to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bites hard on the inside of his cheek at the thought, careful not to draw blood beneath his teeth. Apparently, Geralt can smell that, and Jaskier would rather not have another conversation about why he’s so nervous. Last time Jaskier bit through his lip, Geralt had been convinced it had been from some prissy fear of the dark; Jaskier let him believe it, not willing to talk about the nightmare he’d had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking cock,” Jaskier mutters, propping his head up in his hands so that his chin digs into his palm. The dull pain distracts him from the anxiety rolling through his chest. “I’m starting to think my role in all this doesn’t matter as much as she told me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Geralt emerges from the trees with a few dead rabbits in his hands, startling Jaskier with his presence. “But I hope you’re not talking to the horses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” Jaskier says, injecting his voice with a tease rather than the bitterness he feels in the back of his throat. “At least those two would give me an intelligent conversation for once.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Geralt says. Jaskier knows he’s doing it to be annoying. A few days ago, Jaskier had mentioned how often Geralt replaces an actual response with a grunt, and all it’s done is caused an increase in senseless noises. With a sigh, Jaskier moves to Geralt’s side, holding his hand out for a rabbit and a knife. Geralt hadn’t ever asked Jaskier to help with things like dinner or other chores, but Jaskier knows how easy it is to weigh someone’s usefulness against their uselessness; it’s a test he’s nearly failed too many times in his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, you’re the one that’s comfortable with gutting and slicing things up. I shouldn’t be doing this,” Jaskier says, grimacing as Geralt prepares a rabbit for skinning. He cuts off the feet, tail and head with barely a flinch, passing it over to Jaskier with a grunt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right,” Geralt says as Jaskier starts cutting the skin away from the rabbit. “You should be writing songs. But you’re not. Why?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier hesitates, his grip on Geralt’s spare hunting knife tensing before he shrugs and continues his work. If Geralt notices, he doesn’t say anything about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps you just haven’t had any adventures worthy of a ballad,” he says with a laugh that’s only half-forced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt snorts. “Or maybe you’re just not as good a bard as you pretend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn him— it’s so easy to laugh, so easy to look up with a crooked grin and narrowed eyes, so easy to pretend that there’s nothing more to life than joking and teasing and messing around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and I suppose you know all about what makes for good music?” Jaskier asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are you aware that lyrics are meant to be full sentences?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt rolls his eyes, looking back down at his work, moving on to skinning his own rabbit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bards perform their own songs,” Geralt says, eyes still on his hands. “I thought I would have heard some of yours by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pauses, glancing over at Geralt from the corner of his eye. “Are you saying you’d actually like to hear my music?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt shrugs. It’s a terrible answer but Jaskier holds his breath, waiting for a more detailed response. Because people had only said such things to Jaskier in a time when he didn’t know what to do with their words, a time like a candle’s flame flickering out with a simple breath. Calling him a true bard, praising his voice and music— Jaskier hadn’t realized that’s a thing he’s still allowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s low words, his soft admission— they don’t make any sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You only ever play songs by other musicians when we’re at the taverns,” Geralt says. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek again, dropping his gaze back to the rabbit. He’s only been able to swallow his troubles with the lute and all its baggage a handful of times, moments when they’ve been seated at a tavern and someone’s glanced meaningfully at the instrument. Just a few songs each night, blaming exhaustion when its grief wrapped around his wrists, tugging him back to earth whenever his playing threatens to make him soar. “You have talent. You could find success with it if you wrote your own songs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier grins. It’s a shaky thing, as shaky as his voice when he says, “I think it might not be as easy as you’re making it sound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s voice rests upon him; his eyes are stars Jaskier can’t bring himself to meet. “But it might also be the only way to move past whatever it is that brings that fear to your eyes when you sing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier jerks at the unspoken accusation— the whispered observation. At the action, the knife tugs away from the rabbit’s belly and slices across the back of his thumb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” Jaskier shouts, dropping the rabbit. Pain wells up across his knuckle, the cut deep enough to bring dark blood pulsing to the surface. “Fucking hells, fuck—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here.” Geralt tosses aside his own rabbit and knife, wiping his hands off with a nearby rag. “Stay calm. Let me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Let him do what? Jaskier doesn’t know how that sentence ends but he stills and lets Geralt reach for him anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets Geralt rest Jaskier’s hand in his own, lets him frown at the cut with a small humming sound— not a grunt, never really a grunt but, rather, a sound made of thoughts Geralt’s not been taught to share. Jaskier can’t bring himself to move, can’t bring himself to pull away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, so, he lets Geralt do whatever he wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hisses when Geralt pours water over the wound, clearing away the blood and, hopefully, any risk of infection. Despite the sting, it seems safest to leave his hand in Geralt’s, and he lets out a steadying breath as Geralt tears bandages— bandages for monster bites and hunts gone wrong— into strips small enough to wrap around Jaskier’s thumb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should show more care with what you do,” Geralt says, but his eyes show enough care for the both of them. It chills Jaskier’s breaths, steals away any words he might have tossed out in some weak attempt to make this feel normal. As if it’s ever normal to let something like a witcher hold his hand so gently, as if it’s ever alright to have some murderous beast chiding him about his reckless behavior.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Geralt brushes over the bandages with his own thumb, nodding to himself when he’s sure they’re right. He doesn’t look like a monster when he does that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he doesn’t look like a monster when he reaches down to take the second knife from Jaskier’s other hand, the hilt still pressed into Jaskier’s palm. Sometime during Geralt’s care for him, he’d shifted the blade until the point was facing towards Geralt, his fingers wrapped around the handle as though waiting for a chance to stab. Jaskier only notices this when Geralt gently unfolds his fingers and pulls the knife away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Geralt sets the knife aside, Jaskier can’t tell whether he’s caught in a nightmare or a dream, or some place between the two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try not to stress the wound over the next week,” Geralt says in that gruff manner of his. “It should close up soon enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he goes back to his own rabbit as though he’d never been interrupted at all. Jaskier watches, still stuck in place. The logical paths in his mind give way to something more and, he swears, he hears the beginning of a song weaving through his every thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The month that passes between them is a tortuous path with conversations that open like doors to nothing. Jaskier tries to ask about the things his mother writes about— about witchers and their potions, about Kaer Morhen and its secrets— but something seems to stop him just as the words appear on the tip of his tongue. Perhaps it’s the trust beginning to reach Geralt’s eyes; perhaps it’s the scar across Jaskier’s thumb, healed but still aching whenever he thinks of the kindness with which it was handled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, maybe, he thinks, it’s the way he doesn’t know how to ask these things without sounding afraid. And, well. He doesn’t want Geralt to think him afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, he doesn’t want Geralt to think Jaskier’s afraid of </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t say it, but Jaskier’s seen the way his nose wrinkles when people draw away in streets, when they turn and mutter to one another that “butcher, that’s the butcher.” His lips draw into a thin line, his eyes fix on some spot farther ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now, in the tavern of some Kaedweni city, people gawk and stare. They gossip— though, Jaskier notes, they wait until after Geralt leaves to speak with the mayor, responding to some contract sent his way. Some cursed creature or other; Jaskier’s been with Geralt long enough to know it’s more creature than curse, as most monsters end up being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Play a bit,” Geralt had said before leaving, promising only to collect information and to fetch Jaskier before the real hunt begins. “I’ll be back soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he had turned his back on the room of angered eyes, the place that stank of disgust and hatred, and left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier blinks after him, eyebrows furrowing together. It’s strange, isn’t it? How these people can hate the same being they beg to protect them? It’s a paradox Geralt never cares to answer whenever Jaskier finds a way to pose it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And stranger still, he thinks, that he can ask about Geralt’s feelings but never about his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nothing worth thinking about, though. It’s not his problem to deal with, not really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Jaskier lifts his lute and smiles at the tavern owner, strolling towards the center of the room and playing a few warm-up chords as a request for attention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he focuses on the chatter around him, he needn’t think of how playing has become easier. He barely needs to decide what song to go through, compromising only when those listening shout out other well-known ditties, asking for tavern songs Jaskier’s come to know as easily as the chords he was taught when he was young.When the crowds are good, and when they sing along, Jaskier can almost feel the tugging of some younger boy at his sleeve, asking how to be a bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier makes it halfway through his typical set— past the drinking songs and edging onto the bawdier ones— when he hears them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few men in the corner, their drinks full and their stomachs fat, ale stuck to one’s beard as another red-faced man gestures wildly with his spilling cup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They glance at Jaskier, tuning his instrument and only looking at them because Jaskier can’t stand the sight of his hands on the lute, and scowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Witcher’s are all the same,” the red one’s saying. “Don’t see why we needed to bring one in. All they bring is blood and death.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, yes. Jaskier knows this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But… no. Not like they’re saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier turns his gaze done, staring past his hands and to his feet, eyebrows furrowing together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Witchers are monsters that only know how to destroy, how to hurt and break and ruin everything good. Jaskier’s proof of that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But isn’t Geralt proof that they’re not all the same? Isn’t Geralt proof of an exception?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe there can be one good witcher, just like there can be one scheming bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bet you can fetch a pretty price for one of his swords,” another man is saying now, though Jaskier doesn’t look to see which one. “Take it off him when he’s sleeping, maybe the armor, too, if we’re lucky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These men, Jaskier knows, wouldn’t stand a chance against his witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those things don’t need sleep,” the first one laughs, as though Jaskier’s never woken before Geralt, as though Jaskier’s never sat and wondered why, even in his rest, Geralt seems to struggle for peace. “A good knock on the head, though. That should—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you all like to hear an original song?” Jaskier lifts his head and asks the question before he’s fully aware of why there’s a sudden heat in his chest. The crowd doesn’t answer as enthusiastically as they had for the songs they’d known, but they pull closer to him in interest all the same. Jaskier smiles wickedly, dragging them closer still. “This one’s new, so be kind. It’s called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toss A Coin </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it’s about the man planning to rid your town of monsters before the night is through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More muttering. More untrusting glares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter. These things are only temporary and, besides, Jaskier knows how strong the pull of a good song can be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows how to take these wary souls and give them the chance to fly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first few notes are ready— not quite unplanned but, rather, sitting somewhere in his mind and waiting to escape. And these notes become chords, become a melody.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier’s smile parts, and he sings the words that have been stuck in his head since he first heard Geralt ask about his songs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When a humble bard,” there’s a knot in his stomach beginning to untie, a weight that lifts, “graced a ride along…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a world around him built on the bones of those he loves, a name that belongs to someone with a life he once knew as his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“… with Geralt of Rivia,” and the world doesn’t spin the way he’s used to, his name slips from his person even as he cradles a witcher’s name on his tongue, “along came this song.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And everything from before vanishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sneering faces fade away, and Jaskier plays with a fury that rocks through his body like a river rushing for the sea, pulling towards the sky only to thunder back down with lightning and rain. Though the people around him grumble and scoff, Jaskier doesn’t care. He has their attention, he has their ear— and, soon, he feels, he’ll have everything else they have to give.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he turns as he plays, feet light as he dances through the tavern, leaning towards his listeners and demanding they listen to his song. Listen to the tale of the White Wolf and how he’s better than they know, how he’s kind and good and deserving of their gratitude. And listen to how Jaskier lies, how he twists his truth around himself, how he shifts a story ever so slightly to the left— and how that shift makes all the difference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because these people won’t listen to how Geralt can show mercy and spare those on the brink of extinction. Someday, maybe, Jaskier will say the truth; now, though, the only truth he need tell is that of Geralt’s nature, and that truth is best wrapped up in pretty lies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Respect doesn’t make history, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song doesn’t go on forever but, as people clap along to the chorus, Jaskier feels as though it might. A song can be a lifetime, a suspended note on the edge of the end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sings for people to toss a coin to their witcher, and those smart enough to catch the lyrics sing it back. People are listening— truly listening— and Jaskier’s voice is more than he is; it ascends above them, stretching across the ceiling and pressing into the roof. Gods, he feels as though his voice could escape into the sky if he lets it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The men from before, the men who inspired this, leave before the song is through. Jaskier's eyes follow them out; his gaze, though, sticks to the doorway when he sees a familiar white-haired man watching with an unfamiliar and unreadable expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier can’t be relied upon to speak about Geralt properly— he doesn’t know what Geralt’s eyes are saying now, why his mouth is twisted in that silly way— but he can make people believe he has that right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Toss a coin to your witcher,” he sings for the last time, his eyes fixed to Geralt’s as he smiles and dips with a flourish. “A friend of humanity!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He draws out the note, but it’s barely heard over the laughter and applause. He holds his lute tight enough to crack it, but it’s barely felt over the way his heart pounds as he grins and goes to Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you see?” He asks, a puppy— a child, a bird. “I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grabs his arm and says nothing. Jaskier has no choice but to stumble after him as he’s tugged away from the main room of the tavern, pulled into some darker corridor with only the burn of Geralt’s eyes to keep him company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no one here and, so, there’s no one to see as Geralt shoves Jaskier against the wall. There’s no one to hear Jaskier’s soft gasp, no one to wonder why he— this man who lost everything to someone like Geralt— doesn’t think once of fighting back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s hands are around his arms, holding him in place, when he leans in and asks, “What the hell was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A song,” Jaskier says, breathless— breathless, but, also, fearless. He’s almost smiling, and he’s confused at that smile. “I thought you wanted one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Geralt’s still holding him even as his frown lessens. “I didn’t think you’d actually write it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m a bard. It’s what we do,” Jaskier says, and that smile becomes a bit of a smirk. Because he’s lying or because he believes it— Jaskier doesn’t know. He’s never met a bard before, doesn’t know if any of this is right; but, then, he’s starting to think he’s never met a witcher, either. Not like he’s met this one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Geralt says, and only that. Only that sound, that small hum. And he looks at Jaskier in a way that Jaskier doesn’t want to name. Because to say there’s something more than friendship there— to believe a witcher could feel that way, that Jaskier’s heart feels that way— would mean he’d have to accept witchers are more than what he’s always known. He’d have to accept he could feel something more than hate and tolerance for them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Geralt’s close enough to kiss— and, a month ago, Jaskier would have called this close enough to kill. Geralt’s so damn close and Jaskier finds himself thinking it’s still not close enough, even as Geralt holds tightly to Jaskier’s arms, even as their breaths mingle, even as Jaskier shuts his eyes and blurs the edges of the witcher— make him anything other than the thing that killed his family, make him less than real, make him something Jaskier can—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir?” A young girl standing in the mouth of the hallway, a small stuffed toy held close to her chest. Geralt and Jaskier break apart, twigs snapping in a storm that’s fallen upon them without notice. “Is it true that you’re a white wolf?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl’s young, only half Jaskier’s height, and Geralt seems to struggle with the right way to answer her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier takes pity— and isn’t that awful, taking pity on a witcher— and bends, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>The </span>
  </em>
  <span>White Wolf, my lady,” he says, earning a small giggle from her. “And, yes. He is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though she’d asked it as if she’d already known the answer, Jaskier’s confirmation brings a flash of brilliance to her eyes, a glow to her expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My favorite toy is my white dog,” she exclaims, her voice high-pitched as she bounces on her toes. She steps closer to Geralt, never once showing the fear that Geralt so clearly expects. “My brother made it for me, but then the monster out there got him. You can have it now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She holds the toy out and, sure enough, it’s bits of white cloth wrapped around stuffing in the shape of a dog, eyes and a mouth stitched on with lopsided lines. Geralt doesn’t move until she’s already shoved it into his hands, his fingers closing around the toy to keep it from falling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He told me it was for good luck,” she says, shuffling from side to side. “If it helps you get the thing that got him, I want you to have good luck, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jessa,” someone calls from outside the tavern, confirming Jaskier’s beliefs that the girl had snuck in without permission. “Jessa?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl— Jessa — watches Geralt for a moment longer. Not as though she wishes for a response but, rather, as though she’s memorizing his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, before she can be called again, she turns and runs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt stares at the toy in his hands, that unreadable expression back on his face. Somewhere past confusion, somewhere just before flustered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt?” Jaskier asks without knowing what he’ll say next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt, though, doesn’t give him the chance to figure it out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be leaving for the hunt in a few hours, once the city is asleep,” he says, not looking at Jaskier. “You should hurry if you want to join.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he leaves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he turns, though, Jaskier almost manages to name what it is he sees flickering behind Geralt’s eyes— his eyes hold the realization that the world can be different from what he’s been taught; that, maybe, maybe he’s wrong about himself, about others, about the way he fits into this universe. Maybe, there’s a chance someone showed him the wrong side of reality, and he’s just now opening his eyes to the brighter options behind it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the same look he sees in the mirror whenever he thinks of Geralt and the way he says Jaskier’s name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t mind the chill as the afternoon sky grows dirty with plump rainclouds. Geralt’s gone to research about the local area, thus allowing Jaskier the chance to sneak away to the market before the storm can really begin. It’s rare for Geralt to willingly wander into a city, despite Jaskier’s requests for a chance to obtain warmer clothes as the weather cools. Jaskier sighs and runs his hands over the thin jacket he’d packed from Oxenfurt, a piece of clothing better suited for an academic life than an adventurous one. Zuzanna had made it for Jaskier the year before, saying something about how Jakub once had a jacket just like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier frowns, his fingers finding a hole near the right shoulder. Then, his hand slips down to his pocket. The letter slipped inside is just like all the letters he receives from his mother— short, cold, demanding more than he’d expected to give.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier, </span>
  </em>
  <span>she’d written, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m interested in a potion you mentioned in your last correspondence, one that protects Witchers from poison and the like. The golden oriole, I believe you named it. It seems an unfair advantage for Witchers to use more than simple mutations to terrorize us. But we can twist it to our own liking, if only you will—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Steal the potion. Make a copy, a fake. Replace it in Geralt’s bags, then send the true one to his mother so she and their allies in Oxenfurt can study it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words, not Jaskier’s. If Jaskier had it his way, he’d march back to the tavern and order enough drinks to pull off something as stupid as this— as stupid and as sickening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows a bout of nausea creeping up his throat as he imagines following through with his mother’s demands. She packed extra coins into her letter so Jaskier could pay for the parcel to send the potion in, but she hadn’t mentioned why she’d need it— only that it can be studied, only that she has a plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s easy for Jaskier to pretend his twisting stomach has everything to do with being left out of yet another scheme and nothing to do with the witcher— a witcher who everyone calls his friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, then, does it matter what anyone else calls Geralt so long as Jaskier remembers to call him a witcher?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know you won’t let us down, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his mother’s letter ends. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know you understand.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier laughs bitterly as he recalls the last sentence. It almost feels half-finished. What does he understand? That this is what’s expected of him? That this is the right thing to do? Or, perhaps, his mother is simply hoping he knows better than to give in to the reshaping realizations of right and wrong when it comes to Geralt of Rivia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nears the market but his footsteps slow to a stop as he sighs, leaning against the outside of a shop, half-hidden in the shadows as he presses his fingers to his temples in an attempt to escape a headache. Even as he swallows down the bitter taste of bile, his mind shows him how easy it would be to pull it off. To buy ingredients that look and smell similar enough that Geralt wouldn’t notice unless he opened the vial. To trick Roach into silence with a handful of sugar cubes while Geralt’s still talking with some alderman or mayor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To wait and hope that the next monster isn’t one with poison or venom because, gods, Jaskier knows what would happen then. A desperate reach for the potions in his bags, a choking sound as he spits out the replacement. His eyes on Jaskier, questioning— then realizing. Poison still in his blood, his actions slow— but maybe not slow enough to allow Jaskier the chance to run away, the opportunity to escape a betrayed witcher’s wrath, the option to turn and cover his ears before he can hear how Geralt would say his name when he finds out that—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, it’s the witcher’s whore!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier barely registers the words before he’s shoved farther back into the alley between two shops, shadows tightening around him as those men from the tavern block the way out. Three of them, large and sneering, the one in the center cracking his fingers as he steps closer to Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gentlemen.” Jaskier’s voice comes out strangled— stress and shock, but if these men think it’s fear, let them. “Follow me all the way out here for an encore, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” the biggest man says, smiling in a way that reveals his missing teeth. “You can call it that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow but his heart’s not in it. Any other day, he’d smile back with a sharp-edged grin, cutting words and insults across his opponent’s skin until they were left with nothing more than a stammer and bad memories of some bard. Today, though, he’s weighed down by his mother’s handwriting, her words wrapped around him like a leash stretching back to Lettenhove. “I’m flattered, men, truly. But I’ve had a busy day and would like to buy a new jacket before it grows too dark. Can I get anything for you lot while I’m there? A breath mint, perhaps? Or a— Hey, what the hell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier steps back as the men draw closer, their hands suddenly reaching for him as they shout directions at one another. Searching for his coin purse because how dare he make money off a song for witchers; tearing his lute case away because they can’t let him spread any more lies. Jaskier pulls back, a ripping sound filling the alley as the strap for his case breaks free, Jaskier stumbling as the pressure is released.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?” He asks, his cheeks hot as the men continue their advance. Above him, thunder rumbles with a gentle roar. Dark clouds stretch across the sky. “Are you mad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no answer but for the splash of rain on Jaskier’s cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, a fist aiming for his jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier raises his arm, blocking the blow before it can reach his face, though the punch still jars him as it makes contact with his wrist instead. As one, the trio come for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wall presses into Jaskier’s back as he turns away from their hands, kicking out to buy himself more time. Even as he moves from them, though, he knows he can’t retreat; they’ll chase him into the streets or, worse, grab him as he runs past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smaller of the men reaches for Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier brings a knee up, connecting with the man’s stomach. The man keels over but not before Jaskier sees the flash of silver hidden in his sleeve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s world spins. These men are here to kill him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For anyone else, it might bring hesitation. For anyone else, it might be enough of a shock for the blade to meet its mark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier twists to the side as the knife swings up, the point of it screeching across the wall where Jaskier had been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bastard! You made me scratch my knife, you little shit!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck your knife. Get him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hands at Jaskier’s shoulders, shoving. Instead of looking to see who’d pushed him, Jaskier tries to save himself from falling. Rain turns dirt into mud beneath his feet, twisting his ankles but helping him to shift his weight at the last second, leaning forward onto the balls of his feet to catch his balance again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns, his arm and first curving to meet with someone’s jaw. He can already feel the bruise blooming beneath his knuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s pants are covered in mud. He’s soaked in dirty rain. He's filthy and ragged from the words these men shout.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he brings his fist into another man’s mouth, he’s not Jaskier. He’s Julian— his mother’s Julian, the boy they should have raised to hunt and kill and protect. The child he should have been, if they ever had the time to teach him. He’s what’s left of the Pankratz family, and, he swears, these men won’t ever see their bruises form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shifting his weight again, pulling back from a dagger swinging towards his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>These men aren’t the only ones with weapons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They call him a traitor to humanity, a whore, a fool. They spit out </span>
  <em>
    <span>bard </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it’s his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s foot into one man’s knee, a crunch and then a scream as the man collapses from the broken bone. His friends turn to him, their eyes wide and their sneers twisting into sickness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enough time for Jaskier to reach for his lute case, the wet wood slipping beneath his fingers until he finally opens the latch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking bitch! Your songs won’t save you and neither will your gods-damned witcher!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier knows. And that’s why he leaves the lute where it is, safe in the confines of a pretty case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A foot coming for his face. Jaskier shoves himself back, the kick missing him by a hair’s width. More mud. More dirt and earth sticking to his skin and clothes and dragging him back to the ground each time he tries to stand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The leader of these bastards reaches for Jaskier, pulling him to his feet by his collar. Jaskier’s deafened by the rasp of his jacket tearing, the sound drowned out by a boom of thunder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thunder. Rain. Lightning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can't feel the sky anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man drags him closer, grinning like he’s won. They’re so close Jaskier can smell the piss poor ale still sticking to his mouth. They’re so close that the man looks back to his friends, victorious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re so close that Jaskier’s dagger is halfway through the man’s throat before the next round of raindrops falls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood sprays over Jaskier’s hand, filling the air with the horrid scent of rusted iron and dirty coins. The man’s grip goes limp and Jaskier steps away, letting him fall with a gurgling sound, blood rushing from between his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier would look to the others and ask who’s next, would taunt and tease and mock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s Julian who readjusts his grip on the blade and steps over the dead man like a rock in his path, a feral sound in his throat as he fixes his focus on the next target. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man with the broken knee, with missing teeth and flaxen hair, brings the back of his hand across Jaskier’s cheek, eyes manic as he forces himself to stand. Jaskier barely feels it through the taste of blood flooding over his tongue. He’ll have a bruise to explain to Geralt later, a sore jaw to laugh about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He practices his smile now as he swings his dagger forward, cutting the man across the shoulder. The man tries again for a backhand and Jaskier laughs at how stupid he seems to think Jaskier is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How stupid the world seems to think Jaskier is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bends beneath the blow, turning his dodge into a lunge. Burying his dagger in the man’s gut isn’t a decision so much as it is the next logical step. He pulls the dagger from one side of the man’s body to the other, the sound like a chef cutting meat for a stew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lifts his head as the second man falls, hair weighted with rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The third man turns and runs. Jaskier only stares, breathing heavily, and lets him get away. The chase isn’t worth the energy and, besides, he’ll be helping Geralt with a hunt tonight. He’ll have plenty of chances to run then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>New bruises and small cuts make themselves known across his body, sinking into him with an ache that causes him to hiss each time he moves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Jaskier lowers to his knees. He can’t tell if he’s falling or sitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two bodies rest on either side of him, bleeding out with their eyes still turned towards Jaskier— dead but still staring. There was an old rumor, once, that the last image a dying man sees is imprinted on their eyes. Jaskier’s almost tempted to lean over, to stretch their eyelids wide and look for his reflection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he wipes the blood from his dagger and stares down at that, instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A blade. A brooch. Blood still stains his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could he have ever forgotten that this is all he was ever meant to be? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother’s letter is probably soaked through, the ink ruined and the paper torn. Still, Jaskier knows what that last line means.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know you understand, </span>
  </em>
  <span>his mother had written. And, of course, that’s all she had to write.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Jaskier’s not meant to understand anything other than what he’s told. Do what’s demanded; be what’s required.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls the jacket off with steady hands, though his eyes feel stuck on the mud before him. The jacket’s ripped and more useless than it was before so he doesn’t feel anything as he wipes blood from his face and hands on it. As he cleans his dagger on the sleeve, cutting through the fabric as his hands, finally, begin to shake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he stands, he leaves the jacket on the ground. It’s all so methodical, thoughtless, as he retrieves his coin purse from the man with the bleeding throat, as he lifts his lute case and ties the broken strap over his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he places the dagger back into his belt, where it always should have been. It should make him feel better to have it there but, instead, it just looks like the vague memories he has of his brothers returning from training he should have been at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks rain from his eyes. That’s all it can be— rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The market will be closing soon, either from the weather or the later hour. He’ll have to hurry if he wants to buy what he needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What he needs, not what he wants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what he needs right now are ingredients for a fake witcher potion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier watches as Geralt faces off against a group of ghouls. And, yet, at the same time, he doesn’t really watch. He stands on the edges of the cemetery, amongst newer graves and fresher soil, and keeps his thoughts to himself. In the past, he’s waited as close as Geralt would let him, the witcher giving in after Jaskier had fussed about blurry details. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he’d stopped himself close to the opening of the cemetery, head ducked as though Geralt was stupid enough to mistake the bruises on his cheeks for shadows, he’d been relieved when Geralt had nothing to say about it. Besides, Geralt had already noticed the cuts and wounds on the walk here, nostrils flaring as though scenting for a lingering threat. Funny, Jaskier had thought, that he still couldn’t sense the way Jaskier only exists to hurt him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the graveyard, Geralt blocks an attack from the ghouls with a blast of Igni from his hand. Jaskier’s barely close enough to feel the fire but he can still hear the deep cries of the monsters it catches, ghouls falling over each other to escape as Geralt’s silver blade swings into them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier merely watches. Watches as blood sprays from monster backs, watches as the ghouls snap their ferocious jaws and run at Geralt again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier watches but it’s hard to feel anything when it seems he’s watching the world from behind a dirty scarf, the fabric pulled tight over his eyes. Enough to see the shadows and silhouettes but not nearly enough to make him care. Blurred edges and slow movements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s body doesn’t feel like his own when he thinks of the ground reaching back up into his feet like soil seeking out his roots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grunts, pulling his sword free from a ghoul, only a few left to fight. It stopped raining after Jaskier left the market but it’s still like a flash of lightning when Jaskier blinks and sees the witcher from his nightmares instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. Gore. Fear. Family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier blinks again and he’s only staring at Geralt as he kills another monster. A monster, not people. Geralt doesn’t kill people; he’s not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s fingers rub together at his side. He’d washed his hands thoroughly before meeting with Geralt but he swears he can still feel the chalky dust of dried blood beneath his nails.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t kill people. He’s not like Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier chokes on a gag that Geralt’s too busy to hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna had taught Jaskier he may need to kill one day but he’d always believed she only ever meant a witcher. Valdo had called Jaskier soft but the word had only served as motivation for Jaskier to prove him wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If only they could see him now. Trembling from the memory of a dead man’s eyes. Sick from the leftover stench of blood he’s spilled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What makes him better than that first witcher now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two more ghouls left, the biggest of the pack, and Jaskier watches as Geralt circles them with an ease in his shoulders. This will be over soon. Another contract finished. Another city saved from a monster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s called the butcher but Jaskier’s never seen him kill a person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, sure, he knows he has— he’s heard the stories, he’s seen the guilt in Geralt’s eyes— but how is that any worse than the men who slay others for the sake of greed and power? Geralt threatens and fights but he doesn’t kill— at least, not in front of Jaskier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s it like to be stronger than those who hate you but never use that strength?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt turns, the last ghoul falling dead at his side. He faces Jaskier, his arm raising to put his sword away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier hears the growl at the same time he sees Geralt’s eyes widen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier!” He calls. “Look out!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt begins to run.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s all so unnecessary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier spins to meet the danger with his eyes wide open, that fabric pulling from his vision in time for him to see the opened maw, the extended claws. A wolf broken from its pack, already in the air with a snarl deep in its throat— fangs and dark eyes aimed at Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It only takes two breaths for Jaskier to free his dagger from his belt, to spin beneath the animal’s lunge— to catch it with his blade between its ribs instead, swearing as the weight of the broken fall nearly brings Jaskier to the ground with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A high pitched keening noise fills the air; the wolf lies on its side, panting and whining, a red gash cutting down its center from the slash of Jaskier’s weapon. As it loses its breath, it almost sounds like a cry. The wolf watches Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, no. Not a wolf. A dog, stray and alone, fur matted and ribs nearly showing. Just another starving animal, dead for doing what it needs to survive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Jaskier lets the vomit come up, turning and retching when the light finally slips from the creature’s gaze. The bile doesn’t taste like blood— but wouldn’t it be more poetic if it did? If it was more than just a human reaction, more than sickness at what he’s done?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three deaths in one day. Is this how the witcher who killed his family felt when he watched them all fall, one by one, beneath his blade?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He’s closer than Jaskier last remembered him, running in what seemed slow motion before the dog attacked. Now, he stands an arm’s length away with his brows pinching together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Jaskier says before Geralt can ask— not that Geralt would ask, would he? No, the question’s in the way he says his name, the way he frowns, the way he shifts and fucking breathes like he can smell everything wrong. Jaskier tightens the grip on his dagger. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s frown deepens. He doesn’t believe him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, fuck that. Jaskier doesn’t need him to believe him about this. He just needs him to keep him around long enough for Zuzanna and Valdo to figure out their fucking side of the plan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go,” Jaskier says, turning and walking back to town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t check to see if Geralt is following behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jaskier wallows in his thoughts, wading through the muck and mud of memories and brokenness while he and Geralt wander back to the city. His hands are fists at his side, his shoulders tense, and his breath stutters in his throat when Geralt places a light touch on his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can collect the payment on my own,” he says, stopping them a few buildings away from the center of the town. “You should go back to the inn and— You should rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says “rest” as though he’s still not certain if that’s what hurt humans are supposed to do, and he looks at Jaskier as though he’s still not certain if the blood on his doublet is from the dog or the bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, okay,” Jaskier says anyway. His voice feels disconnected from the rest of him, as though some stranger’s choosing his words; as though he’s taken a step back from his body, and letting Zuzanna’s plans move through him on their own. He barely feels the wind on his face but he knows it’s supposed to be cold. “I’ll see you when you get back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt nods and grunts, and Jaskier pretends not to notice the hesitation in his eyes when he turns away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier picks at the dry blood on his shirt as he walks towards the inn. It still feels like dirt beneath his nails. Another death, another set of clothes ruined. He’ll need to toss these out, maybe leave them in the same place he left his jacket. No one would notice him losing another layer, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His breaths grow heavier as he walks, aiming for the inn door’s but turning to the stables. Pegasus and Roach have stalls next to each other. He’d joked with Geralt about a horse’s need for privacy; Geralt had responded with a warning about anyone going near Roach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t trust anyone, Geralt had once said, but she makes no noise when Jaskier appears in her stall, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His doublet’s torn, his chemise stained. The vials Jaskier tucked into the folds of his trousers, however, are still intact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mixing herbs and dyes together into the right color and smell had been pathetically easy. He had already had it perfected by the time he’d left the market— left the </span>
  <em>
    <span>men</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>bodies</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>blood and dirt and</span>
  </em>
  <span>— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he approaches Roach with his heart in his throat. Geralt won’t return soon, but Jaskier’s palms still sweat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, girl,” he whispers. He offers her a sugar cube from a hidden pouch on his doublet. It should keep her quiet, keep her calm— if that’s all the reason he’s giving it to her, though, why does he feed her with the same adoration he has for any other animal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fear can feel like guilt, and the same rule goes for the other way around. Jaskier can’t decide which one he’s feeling as he sneaks around to Roach’s other side, facing Geralt’s bags. Geralt had packed his potion bags and the like onto Roach before deciding to leave her behind for this hunt, wrinkling his nose at the mud in the streets as he muttered about not wanting to dirty her hooves. So, his bags are here— a thoughtless action from such a careful witcher. He should know better than to misplace his mistrust of people so easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, then, isn’t this also Jaskier’s doing? People in the market had spoken of his new song. Children had hummed it as they played in the streets. Playing as Geralt of Rivia, as the White Wolf.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Children pretending to be a witcher. At least he didn’t name himself in the song, grant them a new character to put on. It’s easy to disconnect himself from the idea of a humble bard; he doesn’t want to give out another mask for people to believe in, another lie to shape and play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shoves the melody from his mind as quickly as it enters, opening the potion bag and forcing his hands to stay steady— he knows he shouldn’t have to force that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter, though, because all hopes of steadiness and preparation flee the moment his fingers brush a small stuffed toy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The little girl’s dog peers up at him. The offering to the White Wolf sits securely in the bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, looking at the toy tucked amongst Geralt’s potions and coins— his valuables and other favored things. The same man who killed a group of ghouls with a few flicks of a blade has kept a small girl’s gift. How is Jaskier to reconcile that with everything else he ever knew?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shoves the toy aside, body cold when he thinks of Geralt packing it away so gently. It’s another feeling he ignores. After all, why should he feel like the one in the wrong? Why should his mind pretend that anyone else is a victim? He’s the one who’s hurt, the survivor with a tragic past. What right does the world have to make him question his role as the hero? What right does Geralt have to be anything other than villainous?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna’s words echo through his head— </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know you understand.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier knows— he knows he doesn’t need to know. Doesn’t need to question. Doesn’t need to wonder. He’s only here to do as he’s told.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, so…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are two vials of golden oriole. Geralt says he keeps an extra just in case one isn’t strong enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier made two copies of it just in case his mother wanted all of them gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is all Jaskier thinks as he takes the potions out, replacing them with two vials that look the same as the rest. He shifts the bag, tipping and turning so the potions look as though they’ve been there for weeks. He places the toy dog back into its spot. He closes the bag, ties it shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier turns, two witcher potions held tightly in his shaking hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks back into the inn, wondering when he’ll feel as though this is the heroic thing to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They end up back on the road before the end of the week. A few days pass. Jaskier barely feels them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t tell Geralt about what happened in the market. Why would he? Instead, he makes up a story about some cuckolded husband, trying on a weak smile as he describes the way it might have been. If he was truly this Jaskier, this bard and lover and fool, maybe these would be the only bruises to worry about. Maybe he’d break hearts, never stop them. Besides, it’s better to joke about deflowering twins than it is to confess about killing two bastards. Better to pretend lipstick’s caught in the lines of his palms, and that’s why they seem so red. Better to laugh about gagging on perfume than to cry about the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Better to tell the world he’s an idiot chasing a fleeting love than an idiot caught by a bone-deep rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt never says whether or not he believes the story but, all the same, he lets it go. His easy acceptance does little to release the tension wrapped around Jaskier’s shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A vial of golden oriole sits in his bags. He’d sent one to his mother. She only ever asked for one. She only ever believed there to be one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, when Geralt’s trapping their dinner, Jaskier will sit with his hand wrapped around the vial. Part of him wonders if he wants to be caught, if he wants Geralt to return and see the truth. The rest of him— the better part of him— tucks the vial back before Geralt can see, reaching for his lute and pretending that’s what’s been in his hand instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Days and nights pass. With each one, something settles heavily over Jaskier’s chest. Dirt piling over his heart, burying him alive. Geralt’s brief smiles— or, the things Jaskier’s come to recognize as his smiles— are the shovel, relentlessly digging into Jaskier’s soul as though there’s anything worth finding within him. As though he’s anything more than his mother’s wretched soldier, the Pankratz flower— grown and twisted around its own thorns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, he knows, Geralt will see him for what he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One night, at camp, Geralt sits beside him as Jaskier plucks at the lute. The music eases through the concentrated silence of the campsite, granting Jaskier some release from such thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, in the quiet, Geralt sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will be winter soon,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier closes his lips around a gasp. His heart presses against his ribs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The end of the season. He swore to have answers by then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I noticed a chill,” he says to the fire, incapable of looking into Geralt’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll need to part ways,” Geralt says with a grunt. “Where I go, you can’t follow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So dramatic, his witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier plays on, letting his subconscious pick some melancholy tune. Why is it that music fills this place more easily than his words can?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? And where would that be?” His mother would like that question, and he says it as though she wrote it for him. It’s nothing more than instinct, nothing more than the thing he was supposed to ask back when he still thought he could hate Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says after a small pause— small enough for Jaskier to wonder if he pushed too far. “It’s where witchers from my school stay in the cold months.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cold— a chill settles over Jaskier’s skin at the same time Geralt says the word. Why does Geralt choose now to give his answers so easily?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier keeps his eyes on his hands, on the notes he plays with an ease that should make him sick. This could be the full conversation. Maybe he doesn’t ask anything else and Geralt doesn’t tell him which paths to take and Jaskier can just pretend he failed. He doesn’t have to know the way to Kaer Morhen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fire crackling and the sound of his damned lute. He hears his family’s screams in the flames, can see blood pouring over his hands again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his mind, he hears his mother’s voice whispering his name— and isn’t his name Julian? A Pankratz, an heir, a son with nothing to give but this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His playing slows, and he looks up to see Geralt watching him. The slight raise of his eyebrow is almost enough to distract Jaskier from all his other thoughts. Geralt’s right about winter approaching; the night sky’s dusted with pale clouds, and Jaskier’s only warm because of how Geralt’s watching him right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs to ask where Kaer Morhen is. He wants to beg forgiveness— but when has something he wanted ever mattered?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His fingers fall from the strings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you come back for me when the snow has melted?” His voice is a terrible thing in the sudden silence, and he doesn’t know what he wants or needs the answer to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s eyes only betray surprise, widening ever so slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will,” he says slowly, “if you wait for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier gasps to hide the sharp sob that aches to escape, his breaths hitching even as he presses his lips together. He places the lute at his feet, ignoring the dirt that reaches back for the wood, and turns fully to face Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know whether or not he’s acting anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me where I should wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s quiet but it’s a soft silence, a fragile silence. The space between two breaths— Jaskier’s and Geralt’s, a human’s and a witcher’s. The space between two heartbeats, if they beat as slow as Geralt says.In the past, Geralt’s silence has only ever brought Jaskier peace. It seems fitting, then, that it’s this silence that answers his fears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can withdraw into that terror, Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s arm. Scars and muscles rest beneath his touch, things that one scared him— things that bring familiarity to him now. He feels, again, that rush of the unknown, that he’d felt when some strange unsung witcher had saved him from drowning— and isn’t he drowning now? Sinking, diving, leaning towards Geralt with lungs aching for his scent? It’s strange— Jaskier had never imagined a witcher could smell like smoke and sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier draws closer, everything else around them blurring into nothingness. He holds tight to Geralt’s arm, the only warmth that matters. Because Geralt’s looking back at him like he knows what Jaskier’s thinking, like he could ever understand what Jaskier feels. He looks at him like it’s okay for them to look at each other like this, like this is all there is to the world, like it’s just them and the sky and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there’s Geralt’s hand at the small of Jaskier’s back. And there’s Geralt leaning towards Jaskier, meeting him in a kiss that should have never had the chance to exist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s soft at first— terribly soft— and then it’s the only thing keeping Jaskier centered as his understanding of the world sways. The earth switches place with the clouds, the fire burning as though from a distance. He kisses Geralt and, gods, Geralt kisses back. His lips part Jaskier's trembling mouth, his hands on Jaskier’s back and lighting every nerve. He pulls at sensations Jaskier never had the chance to feel, never had the chance to know could be his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world and skies and air and everything spin and collapse and collide in the place where Jaskier feels Geralt’s lips against his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt.” Jaskier pulls away because if he doesn’t then he knows he never will. Already, he’s ruined by the taste of Geralt, broken by the realization that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt would let me kiss him, Geralt would kiss me back, I could have this and I didn’t know I wanted this, that I’m allowed to have this— </span>
  </em>
  <span>And if he lets himself want this, it’s not too long before he needs it and, right now, there’s something else he needs more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Gwenllech,” Geralt breathes, still leaning in so close to Jaskier, reluctant to separate from him. “The river. Its waters flow past Kaer Morhen. Wait for along its banks, and I will come back for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every bit of warmth within Jaskier flees, and he shudders under Geralt’s touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s it. That’s the ending of his story. The answer. The conclusion. The way to make his mother proud. That only thing he ever needed to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so painfully anticlimactic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says, resting his head against Geralt’s shoulder. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thank you, he says— he prays it doesn’t sound like an apology. He succeeds at that, he guesses, because Geralt’s arms remain wrapped around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, Jaskier will write a letter to his mother. He’ll say what he knows of Kaer Morhen, but he won’t say how he obtained the information. He’ll betray Geralt with the feeling of their kiss still fresh on his lips, and he’ll tell himself it was right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, though, he does something worse. He does something selfish, something awful, something no one needs him to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks back into Geralt’s eyes, begging only with the sound of his breaths. He kisses Geralt again just because he knows he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, he’s Jaskier. A bard, a bird, allowed to be whatever he wishes. His throat is open though no songs come out; his nerves light so brightly he imagines he’ll spring wings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, he’ll lock the facade away and forget what it meant to be free. Tomorrow, all he’ll have is Julian and the horrors he brings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tonight, though, Jaskier holds Geralt and lets himself believe any of this is real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When memories of the kiss come into his mind the following day, Jaskier replaces it with a brick wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few hours of this, his mind is nothing but brick walls. His hands are fists at his sides, dull nails digging into his palms. Still, he never once drops his carefree smile, no matter how forced it feels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt rides beside him, both horses taking their time down the empty road. The nearest city is a few days away; Jaskier already has his letter written.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no reason to be here anymore. He could ride ahead, ride away, leave this all behind and wait for his mother to tell him about the army she plans to bring to Kaer Morhen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Geralt smiles more than he did when they first met. He looks at Jaskier when he speaks. He uses Jaskier’s name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier knows he’s fucked when he says some offhand comment, a question about other witchers— and Geralt’s body relaxes further as he speaks of his friends on the Path. Of a family he’ll be meeting in Kaer Morhen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel. Lambert. Vesemir.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier knew there would be more witchers— that’s the point of finding where Kaer Morhen is— but that didn’t mean he wanted to know their names.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s face feels swollen with his smile but he can’t seem to make it stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eskel likes to pretend he’s the one with the most sense,” Geralt says. He shows no sign of noticing Jaskier’s growing nausea with each word. “He’s really just good at ignoring Lambert’s attempts to bicker. But, well, Lambert’s a prick and I’m alright with letting him know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods, giving a small sound to signal that he’s listening, but his mind wanders to dust-covered memories and dull thoughts from his past. He had two brothers once. Jakub. Antoni. Jaskier doesn’t remember much of them but his throat still twitches, still searches for something to add.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he loses himself in these whispers— because that’s all they are, whispers— he can touch the surface of a memory of Lettenhove streets, back when Jakub and Antoni were children, too. Jaskier— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Julian</span>
  </em>
  <span>— toddling behind them as they played with wooden swords. Their eyes were a dimmer shade of blue than his own but they all had the same messy mop of earth-brown hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They teased him, he’s sure he remembers that. Grubby fingers tugging at his bangs as he sat in the dirt with them. Years passing and, then, a pair of older voices joking about his soft hands, how good they are for playing the lute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt says he argues with his brothers and Jaskier tries to recall if he ever did the same or if he was too young to know how to bicker with them properly. His chest aches— Jakub called him “songbird” once but was he teasing or being kind? Antoni whispered to him about a girl Jaskier once thought to be pretty— but was he trying to be wise or cruel? It wraps around Jaskier’s head, a band that tightens with each memory slipping through his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’d be hard-pressed to find a bigger asshole than Lambert,” Geralt says, finishing a story Jaskier barely heard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt looks at Jaskier, an eyebrow half-raised. He’s waiting for an answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jakub taught me swear words and got knocked over the knuckles with a ladle for it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he could say. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Antoni broke a window and made everyone think I did it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Memories like flashes of light through a colored window. Sometimes, the stained images form a shape, brilliant and sparkling and warm. He can reach and touch his fingers to the glass, laugh at how beautiful they are. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, inevitably, the light fades and he’s left only with muddy colors and muted shades— things he never possessed or knew to call his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, he opens his mouth and another name comes out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Valdo Marx,” he says, “is an absolute bastard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a wonder that Geralt doesn’t laugh at the barely concealed rage trembling beneath Jaskier’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Valdo Marx,” he repeats. Typically, Jaskier hates to hear anyone say the idiot’s name but Geralt twists it just enough to match Jaskier’s level of disdain. “Is that a name I should recognize?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mother and I moved in with his family when I was young— and only because we had, quite literally, nowhere else to go. If I had known the nightmare we were getting into, I assure you, I would have argued the action endlessly. Valdo discovered how fun it is to mock me soon after our first meeting, and he’s never given it up,” Jaskier explains. “It started by making fun of my name or stealing my things. Now, he just goes out of his way to prove he’s better than me in every way, the smug asshole. He’s the </span>
  <em>
    <span>worst</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Brothers often are,” Geralt says, nearly sending Jaskier off his horse with the statement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Valdo Marx is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>my brother,” he snaps, blood rushing into his face with a hot and angry flood. “I lost my brothers long before I met Valdo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t respond right away, and the silence eats at Jaskier with a washed out warmth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve mentioned losing your family,” Geralt says, his voice slow. It’s almost how he always speaks— always thinking through his words before letting them out, always keeping his thoughts to himself unless necessary— but there’s the added element of sympathy woven into it this time. Pity. Concern. Jaskier could gag on it. “What happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier stares. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows where Kaer Morhen is. He took some of Geralt’s potions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kissed him and Geralt kissed back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I watched a witcher kill them.” He doesn’t look away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt, though, pauses. Roach pulls to a slower pace as Geralt turns to meet Jaskier’s gaze. His eyes aren’t those of a man accused but, rather, simply those of a man prepared to deliver the bad news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?” Geralt asks, as though Jaskier should know the monster’s name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If there was something to call him other than evil, I never learned it. All I know is that I watched a witcher come into my home, steel sword in hand and hatred in his eyes. I watched him cut down my family like grass.” Jaskier turns his head to face the road, eyebrows pinching together. “He had dark hair and dark armor but it was his sword that scared me most. I never knew why anyone would need a sword that big, that terrible. Sure, I know you use yours for monsters but you, at least, have a silver sword for that. This witcher—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He only had the steel sword?” Geralt interrupts. Jaskier blinks— flames and blood leave his vision, and he shudders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just the steel sword, yes,” he says, though he fails to see the importance. His tongue’s cut loose from his body, answering Geralt’s questions before his mind can agree to it. “Steel for man, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t seem to hear him past the initial answer, his gaze unfocused. “Do you remember what the medallion looked like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The—” Jaskier’s hands tighten around the reins. “Gods, Geralt, does it matter? It was still a witcher, wasn’t it? I’d like very much not to catalogue every detail of my family’s murderer, nor do I particularly enjoy looking back at that night if I can help it. I see it enough in my dreams, thank you very much, and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Geralt says, and he truly does sound sorry. “But I need you to tell me if you saw a medallion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If </span>
  </em>
  <span>he saw one. Jaskier shuts his eyes, sighing. This is stupid. Ridiculous. Painful and horrible, but Geralt had asked so </span>
  <em>
    <span>nicely, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>nicely </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Jaskier can’t say no, can he? Not when he has that letter in his pack, those potions mailed off to his mother. So he shuts his eyes and loosens his grip on the reins. It’s just a memory, just a thought. It’s just a thing that happened once— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Jaskier is Julian again, and his stomach sinks to the earth. He’s Julian and his eyes are shut but he still sees the witcher standing over him, a steel sword gripped in his hand. A master at murder, a man made to kill. Julian’s hiding behind his lute— his stupid fucking lute— and he’s begging for this to stop— crying, screaming, pleading— and the witcher begins to bend and Julian’s just small enough that he can see that—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The witcher didn’t have a medallion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes open as he says it, the words ragged and rough in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s quiet. Then, like an apology, he sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then it couldn’t have been a witcher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hands jerk on the reins, harsher than he would ever mean to, and he turns to stare at Geralt as Pegasus kicks at the ground restlessly. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It couldn’t have been a witcher.” Geralt recites this like a book for a class, like a recipe for one of his gods-damned potions. At least he has the decency to keep his eyes from Jaskier, to watch Roach and fiddle with the reins as though he hates to say this— as if he doesn’t have a fucking choice. But, of course, it’s when Jaskier thinks of Geralt’s reluctance that Geralt turns, his amber eyes more certain than they are gentle— and Jaskier could laugh at how he’s finally escaped sympathy, at how it’s no less hurtful than the forced comfort he’s been shown all his life. “A witcher would never give up their medallion. A mage or monster, though, wouldn’t be able to wear one without giving themself away. It vibrates when there’s magic involved— it would expose them. Worse, it would burn them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier tries to cut in, to shatter Geralt’s claim before it’s fully formed, but his lips won’t move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a monster. That’s why they didn’t have the silver sword,” Geralt continues. Still just stating facts. Still just saying this like it’s a case he had to solve for paranoid villagers and panicked townsfolk. “It’s… It’s not unheard of for cities to find fallen witchers and collect their things. To sell or melt down their tools for charms. And, though it’s rare, sometimes those people will find a doppler. They’ll dress them as the witcher— as best they can— and then hire them to act out the revenge that a witcher wouldn’t. And, often, killing full families is something a doppler would do that a witcher wouldn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Jaskier finds his voice and it escapes from him in a low sound, a sound that tugs from the deepest part of his chest and still isn’t as strong as he’d like for it to be. He shakes his head so hard it hurts, his entire body burning. “You’re wrong. You’re awful and you’re lying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier, think about it,” Geralt says, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how dare he say that name</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Jaskier snaps— because, gods, the only reason he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier </span>
  </em>
  <span>is because some witcher took that from him, too. Some witcher walked into his home and destroyed his family, his life, his name. Some witcher stole it, burned it, killed it. And Jaskier tried so hard to bury it— but how can he hide that from a witcher, how could he ever forget the things that made him Jaskier?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But. try as he might, he can’t remember any damned medallion around that witcher’s neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>lying</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says again. The words are too big for his body so he shouts them. “You’re lying and you’re treating me like a child because you don’t want me to think a witcher is capable of something awful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt looks at Jaskier solemnly, the smallest amount of pity in his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says. “I just don’t want you to forget that humans can be just as awful, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Jaskier snaps. He dismounts, vision blurring as he hits the ground— gods, his knees are weak, his legs are shaking, his hands barely feel like his own. “Fuck you, Geralt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He means to storm away, to run off and scream his anger to the world. How dare a witcher try to tell him what he’s known for so long? To rewrite his past without every being in it? He wants to leave Geralt and never look back, to tear his own heart out and shove it into the earth— to make it nothing but dust and mud and dirt, to carve </span>
  <em>
    <span>Julian </span>
  </em>
  <span>into the scar that would be left in his chest. He wants to walk until he’s too far for anyone to know his name— whichever name that may be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to be Julian, to turn and make Geralt hurt. He wants to be Jaskier, to turn and seek comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a choice that tears him in two; his body gives in and he falls to his knees with a broken breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the last breath he feels before his chest starts caving in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He digs his hands into the road, pebbles cutting beneath his nails and scraping over his skin. He gasps but nothing helps, nothing eases the pain, nothing makes him feel alive because—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he can remember that night and it plays on repeat. A sword through his father’s chest, through his grandfather’s throat. His brothers lying in the ground, dried blood around them. His mother holding him— the last time she truly seemed to love him— and a nanny buying them time with her life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he remembers the feeling of a lute in his palms, sweat and blood and splinters. He remembers screaming, crying, begging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steel sword. No medallion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers looking up, pleading for mercy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he remembers eyes as dark as night— the eyes of a monster but never the eyes of a witcher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier?” Geralt asks, standing behind him. How long has he been there? “Jaskier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distantly, Jaskier’s aware that his gasps have become something worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He screams, hitting the ground with his palms— harder, harder, harder until his skin is breaking, until he’s using fists, until tears splash against the dirt and he’s beating against those, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t,” he says as Geralt kneels beside him. “I don’t understand—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words devolve into sobs, leaving no room for air as he cries. They’re ugly sounds, far from the poetic tears and breaths he sings about so often. No, he blubbers like a child, like a young boy throwing a fit. Screaming and hitting, shaking and rocking and waiting for his body to rip apart because, surely, that’s the easiest way to escape this pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world holds steady beneath him and he hates it. Everything should be falling apart. The earth should break, the sky should collapse, Jaskier should cease to exist because he doesn’t know who to be if he’s not fighting his mother’s war. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julian forged a life for himself out of lies and rotting blood. Without that, who is he? Who the hell is Jaskier?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were tricked,” Jaskier chokes out between sobs, his hands stilling as he lets the words sink in. They feel heavy enough to break his bones but, somehow, he survives. “We were tricked and I fell for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a confession. It’s not the one he should be giving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Geralt places a hand on Jaskier’s back. Because Geralt looks at him like he’s scared, like he doesn’t know what to do with a crying bard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Geralt says his name and it’s enough to break every last bit of Jaskier’s strength. He collapses; Geralt catches him before he can hit the ground, pulling Jaskier towards him and holding him in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A letter in Jaskier’s pack. Stolen potions and made up roles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t deserve Geralt’s concern but he takes it anyway, turning to hide his tears in Geralt’s chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault,” Geralt mutters, and it’s the worst thing he could say. Jaskier tries to pull back but Geralt holds him in place. “Jaskier, it’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not alright. It will never be alright because his entire life is built on a lie. A lie about a witcher who killed his family. A lie that he’s a bard. A lie that he came here to be Geralt’s friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Geralt doesn’t know all this. He holds Jaskier and Jaskier feels weightless. He feels protected.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels the first tenderness he’s been given since the night his mother held him in her arms, a graveyard of their family behind their backs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s an disturbing thought but it’s the only one Jaskier has. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, so, Jaskier lets Geralt hold him as he cries in the middle of an empty road, the sun watching over them as clouds cross over it with curious gazes of their own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets a witcher whisper gentle things, lets a witcher say a name Jaskier doesn’t know how to call his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of blood and gore and violence he couldn’t prevent. He thinks of everything he’s lost, everything he’ll never have again— his family, his life, his choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks of all the things Geralt doesn’t know and, because Geralt lets him, he screams. He screams as though the sound can reach the sky. Then, he does nothing but sob and listen to how Geralt says his name. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier. Jaskier. Jaskier.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t sound like a real thing anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t look at Geralt as they pay for a room at the first inn they find. It’s barely past midday, far earlier than Geralt typically likes to stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them say anything as they set their things down in the room, but Jaskier knows it’s his fault that they’ve stopped for the day. Gods, how much more pathetic can he be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he doesn’t complain as Geralt nods towards the bed with a grunt— as though he’d used up all his words comforting Jaskier. Jaskier makes a soft noise of his own, one he hopes sounds grateful, and lies down. His body groans in relief as he sinks into the mattress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mind, though, remains as taut as ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother won’t be dissuaded from her warpath. If Jaskier tells her what he’s learned, she’d only treat him like the fool she always feared he would be. Tricked by a witcher, turned against his family. It’d convinced her further of the need to see the plan through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least the last letter is still sitting in his bag, unsent and untouched by new revelations. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier looks out the windows, watching lights from the sun press into the room with a gentleness he can barely fathom. Will their warmth reach the bed? Has he earned that yet?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light reaches Geralt, and all he’s doing is polishing his swords.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s fingers move on their own accord, undoing his belt and pulling the dagger from his sheath as he does so. The belt slips, falling to the floor; the dagger, though, is a familiar weight in his hand. This scene, too, aches of repetition. Like the first time he and Geralt met, he’s holding a weapon behind Geralt’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just because it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s right. Jaskier has a dagger with a dead woman’s brooch, killed by a thing pretending to be a witcher. What does that have to do with Geralt? Geralt should have never been part of the story. He and Jaskier’s lives don’t line up as well as Jaskier once thought they did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Jaskier turns on his side, reaching for his lute case and dragging it onto the bed with him. He sits up. He tucks the dagger away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he pulls the lute free.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few chords, played without the buffer of a crowd’s cheer and the scent of ale. A few chords, strummed beneath fingers that steady with each note, beneath hands that remember what it was to be too small for the strings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plays, and—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fire. Gore. Blood and death. Steel sword and a witcher’s strength and—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The thoughtless notes shift into his famous song, his only song. A song about Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It aches in a different way than any other tune does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about your medallion.” It’s a breath in the shape of a question, Jaskier’s hands still mindlessly toying with the lute. He runs through the lyrics in his mind, sitting in the shadowed half of the room with exhaustion pressing into his shoulders. His heart shrivels to the size of a pebble, afraid to leave room for what he feels when Geralt turns with half a smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you can write a song about it?” Geralt asks. Jaskier looks away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I can understand it,” he admits. He’s at the chorus now— </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toss a coin to your witcher, a friend of— </span>
  </em>
  <span>“It seems I only understand things if I put them in song first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Geralt says, turning fully to face Jaskier. By the time he’s settled nearer to the bed, Jaskier’s shivering, his breath ragged and wretched. “It’s a symbol of the witcher profession. You’ve seen it vibrate when magic is near. It’s sensitive to such things, warns me about it. It serves as an insignia as well as a tool. Each medallion is shaped to represent what school a witcher comes from.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you’re the School of the Wolf,” Jaskier says, eyes falling to the snarling wolf in the center of Geralt’s medallion. He’s seen it every day he’s walked with Geralt— why didn’t he realize what it meant for his family’s murderer? “And I’m assuming your family is the same. Eskel, Lambert and the lot. Are there much more of you in that school?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt pauses, a wrinkle pinching between his brows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There aren’t any more wolf witchers,” he says in a voice so low it nearly causes Jaskier to shudder, even as a heat fills the room at the words. More fire against Jaskier’s skin. “Those who consider witchers to be abominations attacked Kaer Morhen once, killing most of the students and teachers inside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Jaskier focuses on the sound of his own music, half-delirious with the ease of the strings beneath his fingers, the thought of his own plan to attack Kaer Morhen hurts less. With luck, he might even convince himself that his old scheme was nothing more than a daydream lasting a moment too long.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says nothing, and Geralt returns to his blades. There’s more Geralt could say about his home, Jaskier knows, but he also understands the sting of recalling moments where that same home has burned. Whether by a human’s hand or a monster’s, the pain is the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Jaskier plays. His song finishes but it curls into another one, a newer one, a melody Jaskier’s never heard or played before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another song of his own, coming as easily as breath beneath his dancing fingertips. Something somber and haunting pulls free from the instrument, drawn out like sighs across the room. Maudlin, Jaskier would call it, but it feels right as he shuts his eyes— as his lips part and he sings. A simple breath, at first, a note held until his lungs ache for breath— but, then, he hears Geralt shift ever so slightly, and he lets that note become something more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn’t writing a song. This is pulling his ribs apart and exposing the vulnerabilities underneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sings of a witcher’s hidden home, Kaer Morhen wrapped so tightly in pretty words and sparkling metaphors that it’s barely seen beneath the lyrics. He calls it a land of sea and stone, relying on older translations of rivers and valleys to protect the gift he’s so carelessly been given. And he sings of its age, its importance, its warmth despite the chill; his words are larks in his throat, their wings light upon his tongue before taking flight with each note he plays.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a song of Kaer Morhen but he sings of scorches upon its walls, of family clinging together, of that terrible look in Geralt’s eyes when he speaks of those that hurt it. And, somehow, it’s not a song only for Kaer Morhen. It’s for Lettenhove and the Pankratz Estate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a song for Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier dies and rebirths within his own music, his heartbeat matching the careful rhythm as he pitches into a yearning desperation for peace. For protection and safety and freedom from the pasts that follow them. For friendship and understanding. For that feeling eating away beneath his skin when he opens his eyes and watches as Geralt watches him back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s sinking as surely as he’s floating, his body pulled both up and down as he looks into amber eyes— calls them golden in his song, a gods-damned sunset in a frozen field— and sings of a bard who loves a wolf. Sings of a man who doesn’t know what love is but believes he can build his fortress within it— as certainly as the White Wolf will return to a home untouched by human cruelty ever again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, Geralt— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt watches as Jaskier confesses in a way Jaskier never knew he could: with a lute in his hands, with a witcher before him, with his heart in his throat— thrumming like a bird on the edge of taking flight. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, Melitle, please</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jaskier prays even as his lips form gentler sounds. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep him safe from me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a twitch in the corner of Geralt’s lips as the song comes to a close, hanging on its last note like clouds holding to the sky. Despite everything, Jaskier can’t help but smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything Jaskier’s been taught has been proven wrong. If it brought him to Geralt, though, he’s okay with that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should I play it again?” He asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt says nothing but he doesn’t look away, either. There’s a smile in his eyes, Jaskier’s sure of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, Jaskier returns his hands to the strings and plays again, eyes shut as he perfects this song he’s written— just like a real bard should.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning’s sky is grey-tinged proof of how easily, how quickly, things can change. The clouds ripen with silver shades of fog, the air crisp with the promise of a coming snow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sits on the bed, toying with his lute case as Geralt dresses. He hums his song, almost unaware he’s doing so.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt turns from the window, framed by the muted sun. There’s a strange edge around his mouth, and he sighs more deeply than he typically does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier has studied witchers his entire life, reading and researching and asking all the questions his mother told him to ask. Still, he’s only just learned what Geralt’s grunts and breaths mean; today, they mean he’s nearly home. The mountains are close enough for Jaskier to see them through the window, and he imagines he can hear the melodic rush of a river running through them. Kaer Morhen is still a few days away, according to the supplies Geralt’s purchased recently, and Jaskier knows no human is allowed to set foot in that keep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, so, he doesn’t react when Geralt says it’s time for them to part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s humming pauses but the tune plays on in his head, stuck in his skull like rain within cloth. He blinks at Geralt, words failing him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to return before the coming storm,” Geralt says as though from a distance. Jaskier watches his lips move, feels the words against his skin; even then, they’re dull and colorless inside this dusty room. Geralt hesitates, something settling into his eyes— a fine mist Jaskier strains to see. “Will you return to Oxenfurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oxenfurt. A city of muddy edges and land slipping into sea, sky merging with earth as though swallowed whole by the horizon. Jaskier has the supplies required to make the trip— or, at least, he has the coin he’d need to survive it. And shouldn’t he miss home? The place he ran to and made his own, the place that folded him into its creases, a place that whispered a new name into the back of his neck?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier blinks but, behind his eyes, he sees his mother. He sees her lips form a name that burned with the rest of the Pankratz family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran to Oxenfurt as Julian. Julian, a boy buried in his bones and gasping for breath through the veins wrapped around his neck. Julian, a son reaching only ever for his mother’s approval, never seeing the potential of reaching for the sky instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He called himself Jaskier when he was in Oxenfurt but he wasn’t truly born until leaving its walls. Because Jaskier isn’t the boy-turned-soldier; he’s the one with the song stuck in his head, the one with fingers sore from lute strings and misplaced notes. The bard. The bird.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one looking at a witcher as though it’s the last time he’ll have the chance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier can return to Oxenfurt but, he knows, his mother will make sure he never walks away as anything less than Julian, again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asked me to wait for you,” he says in a whisper. “Can I still do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt walks to him slowly. It’s just a few steps but it seems to take hours. He moves as though approaching a frightened animal, and Jaskier isn’t certain whether he’s the predator or the prey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you wait?” Geralt’s hand by Jaskier’s cheek, and, gods, his witcher is afraid to touch him, isn’t he? Hurt and afraid and cautious of the world— how did Geralt turn out so good when life treated him so poorly? What’s so wrong with Jaskier that he couldn’t do the same?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns his head enough to let Geralt’s hand cup his face, to press into the warmth of Geralt’s palm, and do his best not to break at the tenderness. Perhaps, once, he was accustomed to such a gentle act; now, though, he bites back a keening sound at how desperate he is for more of it, his body aching in all the places Geralt’s separate from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he whispers, eyes falling shut. “Gods, of course, I would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s touch grows closer, more certain. Jaskier can’t keep back his soft whine this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there’s another hand at the back of his neck, Geralt lowering to his knees before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then wait for me,” Geralt says when Jaskier opens his eyes, dizzy and tired and weak and wanting. “And I will find you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s almost afraid it’s a test, like Geralt doesn’t trust him to be here when the snow melts and the flowers bloom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he’s only afraid that Geralt trusts him so entirely.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After Geralt leaves, everything fades to silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s funny, in that tragic sort of way, that it’s the conversation-adverse witcher who takes all Jaskier’s words with him, leaving nothing but empty space and the sound of Jaskier’s breaking heart. Breaking because, one way or another, there’s a part of him that’s dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier— free-falling, plummeting, his arms reaching for clouds as the ground draws ever closer. Geralt’s distance pulls at him, a string tugged taut with each step they take from one another. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wait for me</span>
  </em>
  <span> Geralt had said— but he hadn’t known what or who he was saying it to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because, then, there’s Julian. Dirt beneath his nails as he claws at the land he’s been buried beneath, some stone sitting on his chest as he struggles to breathe. Deeper, deeper— mud in his throat and coating his lungs, his bones more dust than man. He hears his mother’s voice shoveling over him, the terrible scratching sound of rocks and his name. Her arms are the coffin keeping him down; her hair is the color of his grave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s neither Jaskier nor Julian but, instead, the two clinging to each other as he ventures from one town to the next. He plays in taverns and inns and town squares to fill the silence, though his ears never seem to stop ringing with silence, even as he sings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The new song— as untold and unknown as a boy once called Julian— isn’t as popular as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toss A Coin, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but people still applaud at the end. A few young troubadours approach him one night, hesitantly asking for the sheet music for the song. Jaskier doesn’t have what they’re looking for, but they’re more than willing to sit with him for a few hours after that, watching as he plays so they could pick it up on their own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They leave with the song on their lips, the notes already accustomed to their instruments. They promise to do their best to spread it but Jaskier can’t quite care if they do. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toss A Coin </span>
  </em>
  <span>had been an accidental success— a chorus people clung to, catchy words and memorable phrases; he’s never done this for fame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, with each town he encounters, people ask for the song. And what is Jaskier to do if not play it for them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People learn the words easily but they never seem to catch the meaning beneath them, be it Kaer Morhen or Jaskier’s confession. All they know is that it’s beautiful and, therefore, the witcher must be beautiful, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He travels along the Gwenllech at a speed he knows is unhealthy for both him and his horse. Passing through two villages in one day; it only takes half a week for him to tire out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if Geralt had come through here. A merchant mentions selling supplies to a witcher, but he doesn’t say where or when. He doesn’t say who.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s alright. Jaskier makes a point not to ask. Not when he still has that dagger in his case; not when he still has his mother’s voice in his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s in the last town that he pauses, Pegasus in a stable and his bags tossed into some inn, and tries to force her words from him. Telling him his job is to avenge his family, to kill a witcher, to do as she says and nothing more. She’d call him Julian and Jaskier like they were the same person. After the massacre, though, did she ever call him her son?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a song stuck in his head— his song, Geralt’s song— as he purchases his paper. There are amber eyes and tangled pale hair in his mind as he puts ink on the page.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something hot and piercing in his chest when he writes that he can’t follow through with her quest any more. The words come easily, though, and with a lifted weight from his lungs— almost as if he’d been planning to quit long before he himself realized he would.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He apologizes in his letter. He asks for understanding and mercy. He knows he won’t receive any. No matter. It’s easier to let her hurt him than to let anyone else hurt Geralt and his family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s near midday when Jaskier finishes his letter, the tavern he’s hidden in filled with people looking to escape their lives with the aid of ale and song. A few people have approached him with hopeful glances at the lute but he’s ignored each one, eventually reaching a point where he barely notices them anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does notice, however, when a young man approaches with a letter of his own in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier. The bard?” He asks, hardly waiting for an answer. “A letter for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier recognizes the swirling letters of his name as easily as he recognizes the pit of sickness that expands in his guts. Something pinching around his skin and clenching around his throat. He takes the letter, doesn’t remember if he thanks the boy or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s from Zuzanna. It’s only ever from her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span>— no dear, no darling, no mention of him as her son— </span>
  <em>
    <span>I hear you’ve been fooled by the witcher.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier’s confusion slips into something more anxious, something a tad more fearful. No longer under the grasp of his mother’s views, her words seep into him as though exploring the ruins of a fortress she once built. Disappointed with the destruction, her touch lingering on the bricks and rubble, blowing away the dust of skeletons as though it’s simply dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with simple ink and paper, she reaches into him; she threatens to rebuild him from the ground up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She starts by dismantling his successes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Valdo visited some few days ago with knowledge of a new song spreading across the Continent</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jaskier reads. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A song about Witchers. A song you wrote.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And she speaks of “Toss A Coin” like Jaskier’s been spelled, like the witcher he travels with has tricked the words from him. She mocks the lyrics, the music, the story behind it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know how you once dreamt of being a bard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, her letter continues. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thankfully, dreams are things from which we can wake.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna says Jaskier’s caught under witcher magic. Zuzanna says she knows how to free him.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Once the witcher is dead, you’ll see.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s blood runs cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll be in your right mind.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll understand again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She can’t do this.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You can be my son once more.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>No.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Zuzanna’s threats are never empty, and Jaskier is forced to read on. To read, with shaking hands, as she writes of the army she’s collected in Oxenfurt— men and women hurt by witchers, hurt by rumors and the prejudice they choose to believe. While Jaskier’s been fooling Geralt, she’s been readying an attack.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An attack, she says, that can be put off no longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>By the time you receive this, Valdo and I will have already begun the search for the witcher. It will be too late for you to save him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Poisoning the mutant, after all, should be simple now that we have his antidote.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Wind bites at Jaskier’s skin. The scent of pine fills his lungs with each ragged breath. It’s bright, the sun reflecting off clouds like silver and steel. The world around him thrives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, yet, as he runs to his room at the inn, he barely feels as though he’s part of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People greet him as he passes them in the streets, their exclamations of his name bouncing off him like snowballs or hail. His hands are fists as he sprints, his teeth grinding together to keep from screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt left a while ago, just a day or so ahead of Jaskier. But how quickly is he traveling? How leisurely? Has he reached the Witcher’s Path yet? Has he reached Kaer Morhen?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods, Kaer Morhen…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In order to find Geralt, his mother would have to find Kaer Morhen. And that’s the one thing he never shared in his letters, the one thing he never had the heart to betray. He knows what it is to have a home destroyed, to watch a haven become a hell. So he’s never told his mother. He never told anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she knew where to send this letter. She knew where Jaskier would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Has she ever really been out of Jaskier’s life? Has he ever been anything other than her fucking pawn, her son-made-soldier, her tool in this war he was tricked into waging? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was he ever anything to her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s heart pulls at his chest, hoping to tear free and burn itself, hoping to escape the way his ribs seem to collapse within him, breaths like ice. Still, gasping is better than screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the doors to the inn. Past the innkeeper and his family. Into his room to write another letter, to beg his mother or threaten her. To pack up and leave, to ride back to Oxenfurt before the mob can arrive, to find some way to stop this mess, to— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Jask—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hand finds his dagger before his name is out of this bastard’s mouth, the hilt gripped tightly in his hand as he slams the intruder against the wall, the knife tucked against his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier snarls. “Valdo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a thin red line where the blade presses against Valdo’s throat. There’s a thin red haze over Jaskier’s eyes, his hand fisted in Valdo’s doublet as he holds him against the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier.” It’s all Valdo says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s teeth grind together and he shoves Valdo further, ignoring the soft gasp Valdo lets out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jaskier’s mind leaps to every option, every godsdamned possibility. If Valdo’s here, then his mother’s army must be close. Or, if Valdo’s here, he must have been spying all along. Waiting in the shadows with that stupid smirk, making notes of every move Jaskier made. Watching as Jaskier knew Geralt, as Jaskier watched Geralt, as Jaskier fell— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here to help you, you idiot,” Valdo snaps, still so haughty despite the knife to his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hand remains steady. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t need your fucking help. I’m done with it, all of it. I’m not going to let you hurt the witchers. I won’t let you hurt Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice nearly gives out on the name, held up only by the fury brought by Valdo’s presence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo, though, seems as unbothered as ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know,” he says, barely flinching as Jaskier threatens to press the knife closer. “I heard the song, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The song?” Jaskier pulls back just enough to look Valdo over, to search for lies or trickery. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The song. Your song. The entire reason we’re here,” Valdo says. “We first heard it some few weeks ago, your tune about witchers and coins. Can you blame anyone for thinking you betrayed us? Your mother panicked, brought together a makeshift army. The plan was to find you and the witcher. To—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kill me?” Jaskier asks, bitterness spilling out from his throat in the shape of a crooked smile. Valdo’s eyes harden.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To retrieve you. To talk some damned sense into that head of yours. But then that new song appeared.” Valdo’s tone is something Jaskier can’t quite place, not half as cold or condescending as he’s used to. It’s nearly fond, but Valdo’s never sounded fond before. “About a week ago, just as we arrived in a nearby town. A song about something hidden, something precious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sucks in a soft breath. “You didn’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mother heard a message. A code from her favorite soldier, telling her how to find the place they call Kaer Morhen. We both realized you didn’t betray us,” Valdo says, his voice lowering with each word. His eyes soften and tension releases from around his shoulders, something like a smile pressing to the corner of his lips. “But I’m the only one who realized you simply fell in love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spark spreads across Jaskier’s limbs, wrapping around his skin and bringing a tingling heat to the surface. Words and feelings expand within him, too many to grasp at once. He only has the focus to take a steadying breath, the focus to keep his knife still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Jaskier is undone, pressed into Valdo’s presence as easily as the knife is pressed to Valdo’s neck. Nothing’s real; nothing exists but for the thread of threat between them. Jaskier doesn’t want to cut that cord but, all his life, he’s been taught that, if he doesn’t, someone else will always beat him to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jaskier repeats but, this time, it’s softer, slower. Shaking just enough to show the fear beneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo raises his eyebrows but there’s almost something affectionate about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you really need to ask?” He says. “I want to make sure you don’t lose any more loved ones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, no. That’s not Valdo. Valdo would never— He has never— He’s a bastard and a prick, always stealing the attention and mocking Jaskier’s decisions. He’s strong and he’s fast and, oh Melitele, he gloats that over Jaskier like a godsdamned prize, like he’s happy to be the better son, happy to be the favorite, happy to only ever be a pain in Jaskier’s side. He wouldn’t—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s head spins. Something nauseous twists in his guts. “Why do you care? You’ve never cared, you’ve never—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t realize how he’s pressing the knife forward until Valdo’s hand is around his wrist, steadying the tremors there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I care because I’ve already seen this ruin your life once. You came to my home when you were young but, despite all my wishes for a younger brother, I don’t believe you were ever truly a child,” Valdo says and, this time, it’s his voice that’s barely there. “I only desired a brother but you were too focused on your mother’s revenge, on being everything she needed you to be— even if it meant sacrificing your childhood to her anger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wind taps against the inn. Clouds pass across the sky, revealing a promise of sun and warmth despite the snow collected in their curls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier notices all of this at once because all of this is easier than noticing the squeeze of Valdo’s hand around his wrist— reassuring or desperate or something in between— and the familiar light curls falling into pale blue eyes. Pale, always pale, always cold and callous and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand.” Jaskier is helpless. “You’ve never tried to be my friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And perhaps it’s my fault for giving up on you too quickly. It just… Over time, it became easier to get past your walls in other ways, by annoying or frustrating you. I was pleased with your anger because it was something other than the numbness you gave the rest of the world.” Valdo’s words burn, an accusing sun of their own. “Now, though— You’re not numb anymore, are you? That witcher has pulled everything else out, freed you from your past. I fear that, if you lose him, I’ll never find this part of you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—” Jaskier doesn’t realize how emotion’s choking him until it breaks his words, his voice a feeble thing caught in his throat. “I didn’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo, thank the gods, takes mercy with an indifferent look that, under this new light, Jaskier can recognize as exaggerated and pretend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All this to say that I’d hate to see you go back playing as an assassin,” he says. Teasing. Gods, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>teasing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “It really doesn’t suit you, buttercup.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier— Jaskier laughs. Laughs like summer and rain and spring and sun. He laughs and something like a sunrise breaks within him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He falls back, his hand coming to his side, the knife forgotten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, then,” he says, and Valdo smiles. “What do you suggest we do now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad you asked. Zuzanna sent me to distract you while she and her makeshift mob hunt down your witcher,” Valdo says. “Obviously, I’d like for us to stop that last bit from happening. I assume you agree?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile Jaskier gives is one he might remember wearing once, when he was young and his brothers would include him in their games, calling him fond names and giving him a sense of home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Entirely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t explain the urgency that’s been swelling through his thoughts from the first time he’d realized Geralt was still in danger. He keeps his secrets like the agent his mother taught him to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Valdo watches him with a knowing grin and Jaskier feels those lessons fade into the dust that they always were meant to be— the ruins of a life he was destined to leave behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, with Valdo at his side and Geralt in his future, he looks towards the life that he can now claim and build as his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snow begins to fall as Valdo and Jaskier ride for Kaer Morhen. It’s gentle, the perfect calm foreshadowing a winter storm. Jaskier and Valdo ride for the mountains, their horses beating against the ground as though they can break through it. With the wind striking his cheeks and with snow melting into his eyes, there’s no time to regret everything that brought him here. With his lungs burning from heavy breaths and with his hands stiff around the reins, there’s no space to fear what fate will bring him next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They ride through the night, camping only long enough for their horses to prepare for another day. Jaskier’s unaware of how time passes, only knowing life as one storm to the next as each flake grows thicker than the last, each wind crueller than the first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they arrive at the mountain, there’s a layer of snow across the trail.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We find your witcher and warn him,” Valdo says, staring up the mountain with no small amount of dread among his features. Like Jaskier, his cheeks are bright red from the cold, his skin wet from snow pouring upon him. “Or we delay the mercenaries until he’s back at his keep.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We keep him safe,” Jaskier nods, staring up at the witcher’s trail. “Him and his family. No harm comes to them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ice and snow fall upon them. The White Wolf’s world, another place for Jaskier to intrude.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he pushes onward with Valdo at his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It could be hours or moments that they ride, wind shoving against them as though hoping to toss them from the path. He’s blinded with snow freezing across his lashes, his skin sore and drying out, but he thinks only of finding Geralt, only of stopping this thing he set in motion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, as though gently lifted and dropped into a new frame, he sees a darker spot amongst the snow. A dash of brown, of black, of a saddle upon a familiar horse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Roach,” Jaskier breathes, swinging down from Pegasus and trudging through the snow to the abandoned mare. “Roach, where is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her saddle’s still warm, supplies tied tightly to the sides. But the snow’s covered all tracks, the wind too loud for him to hear any fighting. He trembles from something more than the cold, his heart trapped in his throat. Fear grips him as he turns, terrified he’ll see blood or fallen swords, scraps of armor or worse. He chokes at the thought of finding a body among the fallen branches and trees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier.” He thinks it’s Valdo; then, he thinks it’s the wind. Wistful and foolish, just a breeze through the mountains. “Jaskier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second time, though, it’s close enough for him to turn, to suck in a breath and nearly collapse at what he sees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt, emerging from the trees with his hair tied back, his armor covered by a dark cloak to keep him warm. Geralt, unharmed and confused, frowning with tenderness in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a woman at his side, hunched with her own cloak covering her frame. He’s simply helping a lost traveler, simply aiding a stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt,” Jaskier says, allowing himself a small smile. “Geralt, thank the—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the corner of his eye, Valdo edges closer. A hand at his hip. Waiting, watching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” he interrupts, and it isn’t unkind, it isn’t a threat. A warning, perhaps, but why— “Jaskier, that’s—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna looks up, her hood falling back to reveal the same puddle-blue eyes Jaskier’s known his entire life, the same dirt brown hair. The same horrible grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” she says, and her voice writhes like a serpent across the ground, gripping him by the ankles. He can’t speak, he can’t breathe, he can’t understand. “You’ve done so well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can’t move. He can’t think.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All he can do is watch as his mother frees a blade from her hip— a dagger with a buttercup brooch, a copy of Jaskier’s— and digs it into Geralt’s side, into a weakness in his armor that Jaskier once wrote of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” And, like a frozen lake with a stone tossed through the surface, Jaskier breaks. Running, screaming. Geralt pulls away with a shout of his own, his side bleeding and his face contorted into something worse than confusion, worse than fear. Hurt— betrayed eyes looking back at Jaskier’s panic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He runs for Geralt but not before Zuzanna’s hired assassins pull free from shadows and snow, blades raised high as they rush their prey. An army of men and women with horrible glares and snarling mouths, all raging with their hatred for Geralt’s kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are more than Jaskier had thought there could be. Is it so easy for others to hate so blindly?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt pulls his steel sword free in time to block a blow. Zuzanna hurries away from the fight, kneeling behind a tree with the replica dagger still clenched tightly in her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt would know that dagger, would recognize it from the times he’s seen Jaskier pack it away or toy with it at night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Jaskier runs into the fray with barely a thought. Let Geralt recognize his recklessness for him, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes only one swing of a heavy branch to the back of one mercenary's head to mark Jaskier as one of their enemies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re quick with their swords but Jaskier’s quicker, ducking beneath their blades and kicking at ankles to knock off their balance. He moves forward towards Geralt— always towards Geralt— and damn those who stand in his way. The cold makes certain he can barely feel his own fists as he buries blows in guts and throats, baring his teeth as ice melts across his heated face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt holds his own— he’s a witcher, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>— but Jaskier still feels panic coiled in his veins. Geralt cuts a man down, spraying red across the trees and trail, and Jaskier stops only to take the fallen fighter’s sword.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt fights like he knows he’s going to survive and, really, Jaskier knows it, too. But he also knows the blood sluggishly staining Geralt’s armor is his own fault, and he’ll repent for that in pain and gore and murder if that’s what it takes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He uses the sword to slash across an attacker’s throat, barely thinking of the blood now coloring his skin. His mind’s nothing but an echo of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt Geralt Geralt Geralt </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he turns, ready for the next one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A flash of silver aimed for his neck, too high and too quick to dodge. He begins to raise his sword, anyway, hoping to, at least, lessen the impact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another blade beats him to it, redirecting the attack’s force to the side, leaving the man open to Jaskier’s quick turn of his sword, cutting him across his middle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bit excessive, but nice form,” Valdo says, brushing blood from his cheek with a barely restrained grimace. He lowers his blade from where it’d been defending Jaskier, his grip as certain as it’s always been. “I always wondered whether you were just letting me win whenever we sparred. Were you or is it just the adrenaline that’s bringing out this side?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the blood and danger and slaughter, Jaskier grins. “Let’s win this, first, and then we can figure that out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, well, it doesn’t feel like such a far-fetched thing to say. Not with Geralt’s ease in battle or Valdo’s friendship at his side. Not with the attackers retreating, not with Jaskier’s heart thrumming like the battle’s already won.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fall back!” Zuzanna yells, a voice like earth cracking. “We move on!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One by one, her army retreats. They fall into the shadows and dark, their sound hidden by whistling wind and Jaskier’s own heavy breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One by one, until it’s only three. Until it’s Valdo and Geralt and Jaskier, and Jaskier faces Geralt, caught under the heat of his gaze. For a moment, he swears he can’t feel the snow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lowers his sword to the ground slowly, too aware of how easily the hilt fits in his hand, how naturally he goes along with all this carnage and horror. Geralt fears the title of butcher but it was always Jaskier who’d bring the massacre.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s side is still bleeding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt moves slowly, never once taking his eyes off Jaskier— and he looks at Jaskier as though he doesn’t know him, as though he’s another stranger in town throwing stones. Something swirls in those golden eyes, something that burns and stings them both. He looks at Jaskier in a way he’s never looked at him, not even when Jaskier was nothing but the fool he’d saved from drowners. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt shifts, eyeing Jaskier’s dagger— unsheathed, still hanging at his side. There’s a crack along the brooch’s edges, spots of blood across the hilt. He stares at it a moment, then turns his gaze back to Jaskier’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were working with him.” He doesn’t ask, simply states. Like reading facts about a monster— if not for that thread of betrayal beneath it all. “This was your doing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, not this,” Jaskier says, so soft he’s uncertain if even Geralt’s witcher ears can hear him. “I wouldn’t do this. I’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>do this—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt turns his head away, his jaw tense. He’s not listening, gods, he’s not listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It may have started that way but, Geralt, please, you know me.” Jaskier’s pleading now, a desperate whining sound taking the place of his voice. “Look at me— it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s Jaskier, Geralt, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know Jaskier,” Geralt says and Jaskier nearly sobs. “But I don’t think I know you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier is weak, so fucking weak, because he still spins at the sound of his name in Geralt’s mouth, still aches as his lips form around it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s telling the truth,” Valdo says, stepping up to Jaskier’s side. Geralt’s eyes dart towards him, hardening. “He hasn’t been anyone else in a long time, witcher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt only growls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the corner of Jaskier’s eye, something in the snow moves. Something— a man in black with red coating his face, a man with a knife in his hands and murder in his eyes— begins to stand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It happens too quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier tries to run forward as the man rushes for Geralt, his blade outstretched, but he’s on the wrong side. The man is coming from behind, from the left, and Jaskier stood farther back because he knew Geralt wouldn’t want him close, knew Geralt needed space, but now—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now Geralt only has his eyes on Jaskier, only has a bleeding wound. He’s a witcher, the cut isn't deep enough to kill him, but it will slow him down— it will play the part of a terrible weakness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt!” Jaskier screams, rushing ahead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s Valdo who jumps in front of the sword.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blade slashes across his chest even as Valdo plunges his own knife into the man’s stomach, finishing him off. There’s a horrible ripping sound, and Jaskier doesn’t know who it comes from when they both collapse to the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snow is nothing but blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo’s heavy in Jaskier’s arms as he catches him, at his side before Valdo can fully fall. They sink into the snow, Valdo propped in Jaskier’s lap as blood soaks into the space around them, snow chilling Jaskier’s legs and knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, fuck, no.” Everything within Jaskier begins to bend at once, every belief and foundation he ever held, every wall he’s ever built. Tears freeze across his face, leaving him trembling, but he can’t feel anything past the thickness of Valdo’s blood. “Fuck, I always knew you were stupid, you idiot. You just had to play the hero, didn’t you? Just had to have the big save.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, look at the bright side,” Valdo says, choking around the words despite his small smile. “You can finally be the greatest swordsman of Oxenfurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you,” Jaskier says and he’s laughing and he’s crying and he’s falling apart and he can’t keep this together, he can’t keep cutting himself on the shards of his shattering families. He looks up, eyes finding Geralt’s. There’s something in Geralt’s gaze that he can’t read, the image blurred by Jaskier’s tears. His voice is nothing but a whimper, a childish cry. “Geralt. I don’t know what to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood on Jaskier’s hands, blood on Geralt’s side. Blood in the snow and everywhere he looks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” Jaskier begs, small and trembling, the way he once begged a monster to leave him alone. “Tell me what to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t move, still withdrawn from Jasker in every way. There’s a chasm between them that Jaskier can’t cross, a fucking canyon the size of every lie Jaskier told.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Geralt falls into it slowly, kneeling at Jaskier’s side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” he says, shifting Jaskier’s hands— shaking and useless and frantic— from Valdo’s front, undoing the laces and buttons on his doublet to expose the wound. Jaskier moves his attention to Valdo’s hand instead, holding onto it as though it can keep Valdo tethered to this world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt makes no sound as he prods at Valdo’s injury, drawing out soft gasps that mean Valdo’s still alive. He pokes and he pushes, then he looks up at Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, no. He looks at a spot that could be Jaskier, his eyes unfocused as he speaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not deep. A good healer would be able to save him.” Geralt pauses, his frown deepening. “But their blades were poisoned, and I don’t know the antidote.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s mind struggles to keep up with the words, the good and the bad of what Geralt’s said, the wound and the blood and the poison and the implications of it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a weight in Jaskier’s pocket. Always there but nearly forgotten, held close just in case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if he’s given Golden Oriole?” Jaskier asks in a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grunts, shaking his head. “I brought my pack with me when I saw that woman, thinking she was hurt. They took it in the ambush—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hands move of their own accord, and Geralt stops when Jaskier pulls the small vial free. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I took it,” he breathes, voice barely louder than wind. The potion trembles in his hand, violently shuddering as he shakes. “My mother ordered me to take it weeks ago, and I was too blind to know better. But I kept one. I don’t know why, but I kept one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s silent, terribly silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can hate me and you can be angry,” Jaskier says, finally lifting his gaze, those amber eyes striking through him as they meet, a burst of fire from the sky that scorches its way through every bone. Tears sting his face, and his throat aches as he cries. “I’m sorry and I know that’s not good enough but I’m begging you. Please help him. Please help me save him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s eyes, though still raging, soften with a touch of sympathy. Jaskier looks away. Sympathy is for friends; he lost that title before he ever had a right to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Geralt says, his voice a strange blend of anger and tenderness. “Witcher potions are fatal for humans.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier collapses into another sob, the sound wretched and pathetic. He’s still holding the vial as though it could save anyone here, his words lost in his ragged breaths.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s for the best,” Valdo says through a wince, limply laying a hand atop Jaskier’s wrist, lowering the offered vial. His eyes— dim, knowing— watch Geralt. “After all, you were stabbed, too. Weren’t you, witcher?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t move, though Jaskier notes how his shoulders tense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t deep,” Geralt says, the same description he used for the wound now slowly killing Valdo. “It’s stopped bleeding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It didn’t need to be deep,” Valdo says, “for the poison to get you, too. I know what Zuzanna did and I know she made a poison only cured by the Golden Oriole. Jaskier was supposed to send all of it. She had hoped to leave you defenseless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way a man dressed as a witcher once left her vulnerable and alone in her family’s home, burning her and her son out like rats.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t deserve the relief he feels as he looks at Geralt, the weight of the potion increasing in his hand. “Do you need—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I felt the poison as soon as it reached my bloodstream,” Geralt admits, nearly seeming embarrassed to say it. “I had hoped to return to Kaer Morhen before it could get worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaer Morhen’s not far from here, Jaskier’s sure, if Geralt feels he could make it there before the poison takes effect. Still, it’s not a risk Jaskier’s willing to take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you should have it,” Jaskier says, shoving the potion towards Geralt’s hands. “I’ll find another way to help Valdo but you shouldn’t have to suffer, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go,” Jaskier says, staring at his hands— blood-stained and holding something stolen. “Take the potion and go to your family. Leave me here. We both know it’s what you should do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s no time for silence and meaningful glances but Jaskier can’t help the way his eyes find Geralt’s face, taking in the worried lines and dirtied hair as though it’s the last time he’ll see it. Geralt’s lips part in that way they do whenever he’s about to say Jaskier’s name, his chest filling with a heavy breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shuts his eyes. “Go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment— it’s just a moment. Then, the Golden Oriole is taken from his hands and he hears the unmistakable sounds of Geralt standing and walking off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No words. No hesitation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shoves away his breaking heart, knowing he has no right to the hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Jaskier says, opening his eyes and trembling worse than before. He looks down at Valdo. “Alright, let’s fix you up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes quick work of tearing his own jacket, making bandages out of the cloth and binding it across the worst of the cut. Geralt had been right about it not being deep, and the stains of blood pooling into the fabric aren’t enough for Jaskier to worry about blood loss. The inflamed edges, though— the burning skin and weakened breaths— frighten Jaskier like nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A good night of sleep and you’ll feel much better,” Jaskier says, uncertain of who he’s trying to reassure. Valdo’s eyelids flutter but Jaskier refuses to see it, refuses to think of what it means when he takes too long to complete one blink. “And you call me the dramatic one. Are you trying to take all my titles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo laughs and it breaks through him like a death rattle. Still, any sound is better than none.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So obsessed with being the best,” Valdo says, barely getting the words out. He can’t quite smile anymore, his mouth caught in a pained grimace. “Didn’t I say that would get you hurt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, you’re in no place to talk, are you? Now, come on. Let’s get you to a healer or a mage or someone else willing to help,” Jaskier says, fitting his hands beneath Valdo’s arms and trying to lift him. They make it halfway before Valdo collapses again with a pained sound. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. “Come on, you bastard! I’m not letting you die! Not after— Not after finally realizing that you’re my brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s horribly cliche and sentimental, two things he’s never been with Valdo, but Valdo’s eyes glisten all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Figures it’d take you so long to notice,” he says, barely getting the words out. He takes shallow breaths between each one, his face slowly paling. “But it’s alright, Jaskier. It’s…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trails off and Jaskier takes too long to notice he’s gone unconscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Jaskier says, the word pulling from him as though it’s been trapped in his chest all along. “No, goddamn you, no!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo’s chest lifts and falls with nearly nonexistent breaths, his blood still sticking to Jaskier’s hands. And, fuck, that blood— like the night his family was slaughtered, like the night he could do nothing but hide and run and let them die— stains him. Always the survivor with the highest cost, the one with nothing left to give even as he screams his pain to the world. He was a child when he lost his family for the first time and he swears he still is, abandoned and too young for this world, too alone and naive to be expected to live through this sort of tragedy again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julian lost his family. It seems Jaskier is destined to lose his, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier. Julian. Was there ever a difference that mattered? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow mingles with tears, hot and cold, and his breaths stumble free from his aching throat. He struggles to his feet, Valdo still in his arms. He just needs to make it to the horses, just needs to make it back to town. He can do that. If anything, he can do </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some horrible part of his mind that sounds like his mother wonders why it’s only now he’s decided to try and save anyone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels bad for how he’s mostly dragging Valdo through the snow but his limbs are stiff from the cold and he can’t see through his tears. It’s the best he can do, though. It’s the best he can offer. He’s nearly to the horses, having wandered from them and farther into the forest area during the fight. He tries to call for them but can’t, too frozen to speak anymore. Still, he trudges on. One step and then another, another and another until his legs are weak and his arms are tired and he’s tripping, gods, he’s slipping, and Valdo is falling from his arms and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s caught with a warm hand around his bicep, another slowly taking Valdo from him. Jaskier’s tears had run out but he feels as though he’ll cry again when he looks up into familiar amber eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt,” he breathes, and nothing else. “Geralt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt says nothing, taking Valdo fully from Jaskier and carrying him to the horses he’d brought over. He’s methodical, detached, as he ties Valdo to the horse to keep him falling, a cloak draped across his back to keep him warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier can’t think of anything other than his witcher’s name, his presence, his help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes still averted from Jaskier, Geralt brings Pegasus over to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kaer Morhen’s not far,” he says. Monotonous. Like a stranger. “He can get help there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt.” Jaskier can’t help the way he steps forward, the way he seeks Geralt’s gaze like it could keep him warm. “I’m so sorry for all of this. I know there’s nothing I can do but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damnit, Jaskier! I don’t want your fucking apology.” Finally, a change in tone as Geralt growls, a dangerous sound. Jaskier’s heard it before but never towards him; he’s never heard his name twisted and torn in such a way. “I don’t trust you and I don’t fucking know what to do with you, either. I should leave you out here, away from my home and my family.” He’s right, gods, Jaskier knows he’s right. “But this man saved my life. I owe him the same favor. That’s all this is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Jaskier says, the word thick in his throat. “Right, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt turns away towards Roach, climbing into her saddle. Valdo’s horse is tied to Roach, leading them up the trail to Kaer Morhen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier mounts his own horse, following behind without a word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He follows Geralt with a silence he no longer knows how to fill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walk in silence for far too long, passing trees and animal tracks until these, too, fade and the world seems abandoned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With each step, Jaskier’s crystalline clearness of the world— the vision he thought he found when he learned the truth— fades into a dim blur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They arrive at Kaer Morhen as though in a dream, the large gates like a smudge of gray against the mountain. Jaskier remembers dismounting from Pegasus, remembers walking forward with a new chill. But he doesn’t remember getting here. He doesn’t remember how much time has passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt says, but he’s talking to the two witchers who’ve appeared, both scarred and frowning. An older witcher walks towards them slowly, his brand of confusion marred with suspicion. “This is Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in the back of Jaskier’s mind moves to smile and bow, to joke and flirt the way he’s supposed to. Instead, he simply stands by Pegasus and lets the earth move around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s been moving for so damn long. Can he stop? Can he have one moment?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts his eyes as Geralt passes Valdo over to another witcher— Lambert, perhaps? Jaskier doesn’t try to remember the stories Geralt told them, burning them in the part of his mind that knows he may never hear such fond things again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This man saved my life.” Geralt doesn’t say what from but he also won’t look at Jaskier, won’t speak to him or show any evidence he knows he’s here. “He’s been poisoned. We should help him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lambert nods, making a small comment Jaskier can’t hear. Eskel goes with him, recognizable from the scars Geralt had once told Jaskier, back when he trusted him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone now with Geralt and the grey-haired witcher blocking the rest of the way in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt,” the older witcher says. Like Geralt, he doesn’t act as though Jaskier’s there. “We should talk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier looks down so he doesn’t have to watch Geralt walk away. But then he’s only looking at the blood on his hands, the blood on his clothes— Valdo’s blood and all Jaskier’s fault— and he’s suddenly sure he’s going to be sick. He takes a long breath, knowing full well that it’s more than Valdo can do right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. It should have been Jaskier— just like it should have been Julian back when his family first burned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Farther away, Geralt says his name again, whispering it like it pains him. The older witcher— Vesemir, Jaskier distantly recalls— has a lower voice, speaking things he can’t hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier can feel their gazes, though. He knows they’re trying to figure out what to do with him. Jaskier’s nearly amazed with how little he cares. Perhaps they’ll send him away, leave him to the ice and storm of the mountain. Maybe they’ll skip that step and simply kill him before he has a chance to explain— though, what could he explain? Everything he said was a lie. It’s as easy as that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The conversation between the two witchers grows louder but it’s all a buzz in Jaskier’s ears, nothing more than added tumult to the blizzard. He lifts his head, anyway, almost hoping he’ll see Geralt looking at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he shifts, though, something yellow catches in his vision, a glimpse of sun, or—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His dagger, peeking out from a bag kept on Pegasus’ side. Cleaned, replaced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt brought the horses to them when he decided to help save Valdo. Jaskier had shoved his dagger away without a thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s teeth bite together, paining his jaw as his breath escapes in something that’s neither a growl or a hiss, something worse than both. He pulls the dagger free from its case, muscles tense already with the desire to throw it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But once it’s in his hand, he pauses, white-knuckled, as his eyes catch on the buttercup brooch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s done crying, he tells himself. He’s done sobbing over things that will never change. Still, something wraps around his throat as he presses fingertips to the flower, remembering the night he was given his new name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His new life. His new role. It had all seemed so easy, that night of the murder, to bury himself in his anguish and vengeance. Julian was left for dead, seeds of Jaskier planted on his grave and watered with blood. He lost his family so he forged a life where he didn’t need one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, though— Now, the man who only ever wanted to be his brother is dying. Now, the witcher who only ever knew him as Jaskier the Bard is betrayed and turned away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s family is dying again. Who does that leave him as now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He twists the knife in his hand, the world distorted in its metal, shades of white and grey and violet mixing into something that’s almost a sky. It’s more a painting than it is anything real, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Jaskier was never real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuts his eyes, something settling upon his chest only to release within the same moment— a realization tugging free the chains he’s bound himself in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julian the Nobleman’s Son died, choking on his family’s blood. It’s time for Jaskier the Soldier to rest, as well, buried with all the hatred and lies his mother gave him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps something lovelier can grow in his place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dagger drops soundlessly from his hand, landing at his feet. He can’t move on from his trauma, not yet, but he can accept that it doesn’t need to be who he is. It doesn’t need to define him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He once wrote a song that made witchers into heroes. He wonders if he can trick himself in the same way, saying he’s better than what he is until he can believe it’s true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo saw him as more than a weapon. Geralt saw him as more than he ever thought he could be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when Jaskier opens his eyes once more, Geralt is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All that’s left is the smooth white of snow and the last pale glimpses of the sun through the clouds.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The world blurs and Jaskier can barely see Vesemir’s face as he speaks. Jaskier thinks he may be asking him to follow him but his voice is nothing but a dull thud within Jaskier’s ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Jaskier follows. Somehow, the sound of their feet crunching across the snow is crisper than anything else, a white noise Jaskier clings to. But, inevitably, snow becomes stone, and the sound is heavier than before. A foreboding echo rather than the easy crackling of ice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier counts steps in his head, eyes pinned to the back of Vesemir’s feet as they walk. Two dozen steps to get inside. Six steps to reach a staircase. Eighteen stairs down— another dozen steps forward after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Vesemir stops walking. Jaskier keeps his eyes down, his body still. In this stone building, everything is amplified— the cold air chasing after them, the smell of sweat and spice, and someone’s home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The jarring clang of a metal door swinging open. The eerie hollowness of Jaskier’s chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glances up at the cell Vesemir’s opened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s muscles lock up— instinct, perhaps, or realization— and he sucks in a breath at the sight of the small room. There’s barely anything in there— no bed or mattress, no signs of life— and it stinks of animals as though years have passed since this place has seen a human trapped inside. Aside from stone walls and an uneven stone floor, stray strands of hay dust across the bottom. Chains and manacles hanging from the wall opposite, swinging beneath a small barred window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier looks to Vesemir, and he knows it’s more than he deserves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt told me about the ambush,” he says, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions. “When he told me it was by your trickery, I had half a mind to send you away— and half a mind to do something more permanent than that. You lost my boy’s trust, and that’s not something you’ll easily earn back from the rest of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods, stiff. “I understand. I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cuts off before he can waste time on excuses— not that he knows what those would be. He knows what he did. Geralt knows what he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir’s eyes remain as hard as the ice collecting outside. “Geralt’s the one who said it’d be better to keep you here. Not that he said why it would be better. Either way, consider this the compromise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I understand, I understand, I— </span>
  </em>
  <span>All Jaskier was ever meant to do was understand without asking questions, to do as he’s told and leave well enough alone. Still, like water through cracks in ice, he can’t help but turn toward Vesemir with something stupid— like hope or fear— in his eyes. “I didn’t want for any of this to happen. I wanted to warn Geralt about the ambush. I just… I was too late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be that as it may,” Vesemir says, unforgiving, “it was still your information that led them here. You still had a hand in this mess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, Jaskier supposes, his bones crumbling like dust into his blood. It was his hand— blood-stained and broken, a knife held tightly in his fist. He steps away, cheeks flushing as he realizes that this is all Geralt’s family will know him to be— a traitor, and nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The worst part, he thinks, is that he only has himself to blame as the title sits heavily upon his shoulders. He’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>traitor </span>
  </em>
  <span>and nothing will change it, nothing will fix it, nothing will grant him the forgiveness his soul is screaming for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the back of his throat, he feels Geralt’s name. It comes out like a whimper, a pathetic mewling that Vesemir, at least, ignores.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt said that he’ll keep your things with him,” Vesemir says, as though Jaskier’s thinking of any of that right now. His lute and his letters are nothing when he’s standing here the way he was always meant to stand— covered in blood and shame, practically naked and exposed, awaiting judgment and knowing it will be cruel. “You’ll remain here until we can confirm the threat of your mother’s army is gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir opens the door wider, the key gripped in his other hand. Jaskier takes a step forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something stops him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I—” The words are frail, dying on his tongue before they can fully breathe. He sucks in a breath, tries again. He forces himself to meet Vesemir’s eyes as he says this, the golden shade burning him like a sun he could never reach. “Can I see Geralt? Please? Not to- Not to make excuses or talk my way out of this. I just want to let him know I’m sorry. Can I tell him I’m sorry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vesemir’s quiet for a short moment but Jaskier’s not fooled into thinking he’s truly considering this, his eyes too cold for such a chance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will only see Geralt if Geralt chooses to see you,” he says, though there’s the softest change in his tone. It’s not kind, not quite, but it’s still not quite as hateful as before. It only exists for the one sentence, though, before Vesemir nods towards the cell. “In, bard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wonders what it says of him that he doesn’t try to fight the imprisonment. A hard knot forms in his throat one more, and he steps into the darkness, blinking. There’s a pale bit of light from the window but boards have been nailed to the outside, keeping out the worst of the storm. A trade of light for warmth— it doesn’t seem to have been worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wraps his arms around himself and waits for the door to close. It does so with a mocking squeak of the hinges, a tsking click of the latch and lock. It’s followed by the sounds of Vesemir’s footsteps walking away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, Jaskier lowers to the ground, turning to press his back against the wall. He pulls his knees to his chest, hiding his face in them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, Jaskier no longer feels the cold; he doesn’t feel anything, at all. He shudders at the numbness. A little boy, once more. Lost and alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like always.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s nearly asleep, curled in on himself and watching the shadows of clouds crawl towards him on the ground. They’re shaped like landslides and earthquakes, cracks in the floor with dust pooling around his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A spider lowers from the ceiling on a thin strand, descending as though sent from someone with more mercy than Jaskier deserves. Jaskier watches its fall, its controlled collapse, and then blows it away from his face. He doesn’t watch where it lands but he imagines he can hear the scutter of its feet running back towards him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave me alone,” he says, frowning. He pulls his legs closer to his chest, his cheek sore from where he’d been resting it upon his knee. Sleep beckons him closer, whispering warmth and comfort and rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, he watches as the clouds move. He knows without knowing that the storm is still going, that the sky behind it all is dark, that night is falling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps his time with a witcher left him with more knowledge than he knew to prepare for.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shuts his eyes but that’s when the door opens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts his head quickly, neck twinging from the sudden movement, but he ignores the pain, breath caught in his throat as someone shuffles into the room. They’re large, filling the doorway entirely before coming out of it, their amber eyes pointed towards the bowl in their hands. Tall, dark hair, scarred, a red jacket—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel. Jaskier remembers Geralt telling him about Eskel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel approaches Jaskier, making no sound as he places the food in front of him. It’s not much— a bowl of porridge and a roll of bread— but there’s something in Eskel’s eyes that reassures Jaskier that it’s the best the witchers can do. No vindictiveness or spite— just whatever they can give in order to make sure their prisoner doesn’t starve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” It’s a struggle to get the words out, Jaskier’s mouth and throat dry, and he takes the bowl without looking at Eskel, even as the witcher’s eyes rest heavily upon him. Geralt had said that Eskel’s the thoughtful brother, the one who thinks before acting, the one most likely to make it out of a bad fight alive. Geralt’s voice plays through Jaskier’s mind unbidden, and Jaskier stares into his porridge to keep from saying any of it out loud. Geralt told him too much too easily; Jaskier doesn’t want to make things worse for Geralt by revealing how foolish it was for him to trust Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier eats slowly, waiting and wondering when Eskel will leave. But Eskel stands still, silent, watching Jaskier as though he expects him to say something. Jaskier only eats quicker, letting the porridge burn his tongue in his haste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, Eskel shifts his weight. His breath changes, and Jaskier stills in anticipation of Eskel’s judgment, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when Eskel speaks, it’s almost kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your friend, the one who was poisoned— he’ll be fine,” he says. “Vesemir made a modified antidote. It’ll take him some time to wake, but he’s alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” And, gods, Jaskier’s muscles let go as though they’d been hanging from a hook, strung out and tight. He slumps over, relief so strong it nearly numbs him. “Thank you so much, I— thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because there’s nothing more to give than gratitude, is there? Valdo’s alright. Jaskier may be sitting in a cell but Valdo, at least, is alright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel nods but he doesn’t leave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the bard who wrote songs about Geralt,” he says, and hearing that name chills Jaskier all over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m—” Not a bard? The words die quickly on Jaskier’s tongue and he simply nods, avoiding Eskel’s eyes. Eskel makes a soft grunting sound that sounds so much like Geralt, too much like Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From what I understand, you’re also the bastard who tricked him,” Eskel says, his voice only a bit colder than before. Once again, all Jaskier can do is nod. What would be the point of excuses or explanations? Why avoid the truth with drawn out stories and half-lies? Would that change anything that has happened? Take back the ambush, earn him Geralt’s trust? He grips the bowl tighter as Eskel sighs. “And, so, I guess— you’re also the human who fell in love with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like an inevitable statement, said as carelessly as the rest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t nod, his breath sharp shards in his throat. “That part doesn’t matter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even Jaskier knows how pathetic that sounds, but Eskel gives no response. He simply continues to watch Jaskier, head tilted ever to the side in consideration, before he squats before him. The action is slow, as if afraid to frighten Jaskier, but it still draws Jaskier’s attention towards him. He watches hesitantly as Eskel lifts a hand between them, fingers folding and twisting into an action that stutters Jaskier’s heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Axii. Geralt’s only used it once or twice, and usually only when Roach was acting stubborn or scared. He never turned it on a person if he didn’t have to, always resorting to other signs. But Jaskier knew about axii. He knew enough, at least, to have informed his mother in one of his letters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel holds the sign between them easily, as though this use of magic or mystique means nothing to him. Jaskier’s breaths come quick, the bowl forgotten as he waits for Eskel to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t use the sign, though. He just sits there, his hand held in that position.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could make you tell me everything you learned and everything you did with that information,” he says. And, fuck, Jaskier </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He knows what Eskel can do, he knows what they want from him. Eskel’s lips deepen into a frown, his dark brows pinching together. “Or I could simply make you forget it all, send you on your way. That’s what’s probably going to happen, you know? I’ll wipe your mind and drop you off in some town. You’d never endanger us— or Geralt— again. You would never remember meeting him or traveling with him. So—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, no!” Jaskier tosses himself forward, his cry punctuated by the bowl hitting the ground, cracking and spilling. He grabs hold of Eskel, both of his hands wrapped around one of Eskel’s, and falls onto his knees before him, eyes wide and pleading. “Don’t make me forget. I’d rather rot here in this cell than ever forget about Geralt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More begging sits atop Jaskier’s tongue, sour and desperate, but he’ll scream it if he has to. He’ll sob and he’ll cry and he’ll fight them off because he’ll take anything— he’ll take death or torture or imprisonment or hate— but to forget Geralt— to lose that, even that, after everything— Jaskier chokes on his breaths, waiting for Eskel to laugh or snarl or toss him off but—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eskel smiles. Softly. Gently. Like the blossom of something new peeking out from beneath the snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See,” he says. “Your love for him does matter. As does his love for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jaskier blinks, breathless, still holding onto Eskel’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt’s not cruel but he is hurt. What you did— A witcher’s trust, particularly Geralt’s, isn’t easy to gain but, when you have it, you have every bit of him,” he says, watching Jaskier’s eyes. “It may take some time for him to trust you again but, I can tell, he wants to. And I can also tell you’re someone worth forgiving. I don’t think you meant for any of this to happen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at first,” Jaskier admits softly, slowly taking his hands away from Eskel. “But things happened so quickly and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait to tell Geralt,” Eskel says, standing with a fond grin on his face. It’s nice, a glimpse of sun through everything else that’s been thrown at Jaskier. “I have a feeling he’ll want to talk to you himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier thinks over Eskel’s words, calling out after him as Eskel reaches the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if you’re wrong?” He asks. “About me or Geralt or… all of it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re both bigger fools than you give yourselves credit for,” Eskel says, laughing and shaking his head. “But it’s no use thinking about. I know I’m right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” Jaskier asks, uncaring of how desperate he sounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel’s eyes— kind, thoughtful— fall on Jaskier once more. “Because he doesn’t say anyone else’s name the way he says yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wakes in slow motion, shadows of falling snow still decorating the ground like a parody of nature. There’s a pale pink tinge to the light now, the promise of dawn outside these walls. Jaskier can’t see it, but he thinks of the sun fighting against the clouds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opens with an abrupt clang, the darkness split by the sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier unfurls, startled, his eyes wide and scanning the room. For a moment, still spinning through his nonsense dreams, he can’t remember what’s real. He thinks of names that don’t belong to him and names that might belong to him, and how the hell he got in this mess, now. His lips part but nothing comes out, the acrid and vile taste of fear slowly filling his throat and mouth. He lifts his hands as footsteps approach— there’s light, but not enough. There’s only sound and he’s only just waking. His hands become fists as his muscles tighten, and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A light. A lamp, set down in the corner of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have terrible form,” Geralt says, leaving the lamp and turning towards Jaskier. “You’d never fight off an intruder like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Jaskier says because this is Geralt and Geralt is safe, Geralt is always safe.”I’m a trained fighter, I’ll have you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s voice goes soft, nearly a whisper. “I noticed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, oh. Right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stone walls, damp and putrid. Howling winds and the hurt in Geralt’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The past day plays across Jaskier’s mind with cruel intensity, pinning him in place as he remembers how he got here, remembers what he did, remembers what Geralt now knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers everything, an ache opening in his chest as he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth suddenly dry, he licks his lips. “What are you doing here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grunts, looking away even as he comes to stand before Jaskier, his hands held tightly behind his back. He’d look like a judge condemning him if not for the tightness of his jaw or the slight tremor of his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to say Eskel forced me. But, I guess, I knew I’d end up here sooner or later,” he says. “And, in my experience, it’s better to deal with things earlier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier hasn’t the strength to restrain the flinch from Geralt’s words and tone, cold and indifferent. He takes a breath, staring at the floor, and silence grows between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s never been this kind of silence with them before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Jaskier blurts out, both to cast away that horrid quiet and to say it before he loses his only chance. The air thickens around them. “I’m sorry for breaking your trust, and for using you. I’m sorry you got hurt because of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt still won’t look at him, but something twitches in his jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry a fake witcher killed your family,” he says softly, sincerely. “I’m sorry you’ve never known more than pain and revenge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not wrong but it still burns like an insult. Is this all Geralt sees him as? A creature warped by hurt and anger and hatred?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods, but Jaskier’s become so much more than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You taught me more,” he says before he realizes he wants to, looking at Geralt even though it hurts. “When I traveled with you, I knew more than I ever had in the rest of my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt sucks in a harsh breath, his face creasing as he steps back— half a step, just a step, as though Jaskier’s words threaten him. As though he doesn’t believe him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn it all, Jaskier thinks. Let him never believe him. It won’t make the words any less true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I knew happiness with you. I knew safety and I knew what it felt like to have someone care. I knew victory each time you slayed a monster, and I knew goodness whenever you let a misunderstood beast go. Gods, Geralt, you taught me that death is more than tragedy when you free a trapped animal from its misery. You taught me that destiny isn’t kind and it doesn’t make sense but, you know what? It brought me to you so I can’t hate it that much.” Jaskier’s words won’t obey him, won’t protect him from exposing too much. It’s as though they know he has nothing left to lose, just as he has nothing left to give. “I knew heroics. I knew heartbreak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s still as the sky when he shuts his eyes. “Did you know anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hitched breath caught in Jaskier’s throat. A tremble in his hands and the fear of shedding more tears. “I suppose I also learned how to love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn it,” Geralt says, his voice a growl through the air, ripping through it as though Geralt, too, hadn’t meant to speak. It’s a sound that must pain them both. “Damn it, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier— the way Geralt says his name like it has the power to hurt him, like he’s afraid of what happens if he says it too loud. Jaskier thinks of what Eskel said and he realizes what he meant.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span>— and Geralt says it like rain splashing upon the ground, like it’s more than just a name. Like it’s a force of nature or something inhuman— or, perhaps, like it’s the human part that scares him. Like Jaskier could actually exist— this person he’s pretended to be— and like Geralt still doesn’t see him as anything else. He doesn’t know Julian— he only knows Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier nearly smiles. Even in this cell, even with all his mistakes, he almost finds the will to smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t speak, though, all too aware of how Geralt’s struggling to find his own words. He lets the silence drag out instead, a chilled thing that freezes his lungs inside his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the first human I’ve ever trusted so entirely,” Geralt says, at last. Jaskier clings to the familiar fondness buried in Geralt’s voice, stuck so deep he’s sure Geralt can’t even tell it’s there. But, all the same, Jaskier finds and wraps himself within it, no matter how undeserved. “You’re also the first human to scare the living shit out of me. Not… Not because of how I trusted you, but because of how afraid I was to lose you. For fuck’s sake, I mean, who the hell runs into a nest of monsters just to finish a stupid argument with a pissed off witcher about—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had a good comeback I needed to finish,” Jaskier says, almost shy, testing the waters between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really didn’t.” And Geralt’s lips are almost a smile, quirked up as though this is just another campfire conversation, another tender moment shared between them. “You’re fucking reckless in everything you do and, damn it all, that rubbed off on me, too. Because— Because it’s damn reckless to love a human as much as I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hope flees Jaskier like a battle lost and he chokes on his breath, fighting to maintain some semblance of calm. “Did?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s smile falls and all that’s left is a blank expression. Back to the witcher Jaskier first met, hiding his feelings and keeping to himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You betrayed me.” Simple as that. “Whatever we had was fake. Or, at the very least, it was built on lies. Tell me, do I know anything about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say Jaskier’s name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julian tucks itself under Jaskier’s tongue, a title he was once called. He thinks of golden halls and fire, of music and murder. People who knew him as Julian and nothing more— people like his mother, the way he was just a tool to exact her revenge. His heart breaks at the memory of his family but it pains still at the reminder of what he gained after— what he lost next. Julian was buried and burned; if Julian was the earth, the foundations of his life, then Jaskier is the freedom of the sky. The chance to be everything he never could. The chance to be a bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chance to be a bird, chased from his home by the smoke and rubble of the life he’s leaving behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Earth and sky. Julian and Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks into Geralt’s eyes and, he swears, he feels the sun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know me,” he says, knowing with every bit of him that it’s true. “I promise this, if nothing else— you have always known me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hands move forward, reaching for Geralt even as Geralt steps away. Jaskier pulls back, bracing himself against the solid chill of the wall, feeling that he may move right through it— as though he’s ceasing to exist with each bit of space Geralt puts between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I’ll never know if you’re telling the truth,” Geralt says. “I’ll never know if I can trust you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I have no way left to prove myself. And… That’s okay. It’s okay, Geralt, if you don’t believe me,” Jaskier says, his voice barely a whisper. It pains him to say but he knows he’s hurt Geralt worse than this, hurt him in a way Jaskier could never blame him for being angry about. Even if he never trusts him, even if this is beyond repair— Jaskier knows it’s not up to him to beg for forgiveness. It’s not up to him to ask for something he won’t deserve. “I don’t want to force you to make a decision, and I don’t want to make this harder for you. Whatever you feel, whatever you think— if you hate me, if you leave me, if you want me gone— Geralt, that’s okay. I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words are barely out of Jaskier’s mouth before Geralt’s there, suddenly before him, a burst of sun through a storm. He’s crouched before him, leaning over Jaskier. One hand’s pressed to the wall beside Jaskier’s head. The other hand holds Jaskier’s jaw, forcing him to meet Geralt’s burning amber eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>understand,” he growls. “I don’t understand why I can’t stop fucking caring about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyes widen. “Geralt—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s surprise sharpens and shatters into an all-consuming awe when Geralt pulls him forward, lips meeting his in a bruising kiss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt kisses him like they’ve never kissed before, so deep and wanting that Jaskier forgets any kiss that’s come before. Desperate and begging and hot and </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>— a sky cracking the earth with a shock of lightning, the earth bursting under the sky’s relentless touch— Jaskier folds himself into the heat like he’s wrapped in clouds and air and nothing more. It’s hurt and it’s apologies and it’s every broken piece they have fitting back together despite how their edges tear. And, despite the pain and betrayal and heartbreak, it’s not a battle. It’s an unspoken search for union— for closeness and intimacy, for that one moment in time where everything felt right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is nothing but the place where Geralt’s touching him, nothing but the nerves firing off in every direction, nothing but this second, this sensation, this endless breath between him and Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gasps for air when Geralt pulls back, still close enough for Jaskier to feel the brush of his lips. Jaskier’s eyes remain shut, terrified even as he holds onto Geralt’s shirt as though anything could save him from his own mistakes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to believe you.” Geralt sounds just as afraid as Jaskier feels, just as lost and hopeless. Jaskier opens his eyes to a ragged expression, more raw and vulnerable than he’s ever seen on Geralt before. “I need to believe you but, damn it, I don’t know how I’ll survive if you prove me wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a question, but Jaskier responds with an answer that thrums through his entire being.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never,” he says, placing a hand flat to Geralt’s chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his palm. “I swear, I will never hurt you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt covers Jaskier’s hand with one of his own, warm and certain as he folds their fingers together, intertwined between the two of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t promise me that. We’ll hurt each other again, it’s what people do. Just—” He cuts off with a low sound, his voice rumbling through his chest as he leans forward, resting their foreheads together. “Just promise you’ll always be Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there it is— the way he says his name. Jaskier blooms beneath it, his breaths trembling as he smiles, shutting his eyes and letting his other hand rest on the back of Geralt’s neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For you, darling?” He says. “I could never be anything less.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier </span>
  </em>
  <span>only exists because of Geralt— from the way Geralt kisses him again, he’s sure Geralt already knows. There’s a promise in the place where their lips touch, a confession in the curve of their mouths— smiling softly to each other, hidden where no one else can see. Jaskier tries to deepen it, to press for more, and Geralt lets him in with a groan. Jaskier parts his lips, muttering Geralt’s name, knowing nothing else matters but for—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The keep shakes. Snow slips in through the bars of the window, landing on Jaskier and forcing him from Geralt as he yelps. All at once, the rest of the world fades in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yelling. Fighting. Explosions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier goes cold once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s frozen before him, eyes distant as he listens for more details. It’s the way he looks while on a hunt, knowing there’s danger and trying to pinpoint what kind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When his eyes dim, Jaskier already knows what he’s going to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The attackers from before,” Geralt says. “Your mother and her army. More of them. They’re trying to get through the gates.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt looks at Jaskier with an unreadable expression, and Jaskier nearly chokes at the fear that Geralt will think he knew about this, too. But then there’s something else in his eyes, something like understanding; when he pulls away, he does so with his hand still lingering on Jaskier’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to help the others,” he says. Though Jaskier misses Geralt’s warmth, though he aches for his touch, he knows he’s right. These are witchers but his mother has too many trained fighters, too many people who only know hate and pain. Too many people who are like Jaskier before he knew the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s for this reason that Jaskier tosses himself forward, grabbing hold of Geralt’s wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt looks down at him, unmoving, confusion in his eyes. Jaskier matches his gaze, refusing to back down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take me with you,” he says, his voice free from any tremors or fear. Geralt’s expression pinches but it only encourages Jaskier to hold on tighter. “It’s my mother out there. Let me speak with her, explain everything. Maybe I can get her to stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This does nothing to take the tension from Geralt’s face, does nothing to add any sort of reassurance into his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if you can’t convince her?” He asks, and he says it the way he asked about Jaskier’s mother back in that tavern however long ago. Jaskier knows Geralt’s thinking of all the wrongs Zuzanna has done, all the horrors she’s forced upon her son. Beneath it, Jaskier wonders if he’s thinking of his own mother, as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter. Because Zuzanna may not listen to Jaskier but talking to her isn’t the only thing he can do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I can’t convince her,” Jaskier says, his jaw set and his tone more confident than he’s ever felt it be, “then I suppose one more fighter on your side can’t hurt your odds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes too long to reach the front of the keep. Jaskier’s stomach turns with each step, following alongside Geralt as they run towards the sounds of battle. They emerge outside, wind and ice whipping at their skin and hair, and Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath at what lies before them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Assassins and mercenaries clog the front gate, a landslide of angry men and women tossing stones or shooting arrows. Vesemir yells for Lambert to help him shut the doors, to cut off this attack while they still can, as Eskel cuts down those who make it farther into the keep than the rest. There’s yelling, so much yelling. Screaming and hatred and pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fire and witchers and Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt growls and rushes into the fray without a thought. He doesn’t have a weapon but it doesn’t matter; Eskel tosses him one of his own swords, Geralt catching it with ease and turning in time to fend off the blade of a man who’s made it in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are too many people making it in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier remains on the steps, eyes flickering over the scene in an attempt to take everything in. The gates are halfway shut and, though it slows the invasion, it doesn’t do much to stop those who can fit through. They come in with blades and flames, holding weapons Jaskier knows are poisoned. Because his mother had a plan to poison the witchers, and she’s never been one to let go of what she believes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel ducks beneath a dagger thrown his way. Lambert kicks down an assassin tossing an axe at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The witchers are outnumbered but they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>witchers</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The fight barely seems to bother them— an annoyance, at best. And they’re home, they’re safe. They’re with their potions and their antidotes, there’s no reason they should lose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there’s no reason for Jaskier to stand here, useless as he was the day a murderer cut his family down. He’s better now, trained now. He can lift a sword as easily as any of these witchers, as any of the killers forcing their way in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can do these things— but is that truly what’s going to help? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Julian was taught to run into battle, damn the consequences and dangers to himself. Julian knows how to hold a sword, how to duck a blow, how to destroy and burn and hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jaskier… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier takes a step back, running into the keep. The witchers may be able to hold their own but he, at least, can find the antidote to the poisoned blades. He can protect them. He can heal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The building’s a maze, a twist of stone walls and large rooms, but Jaskier doesn’t let that stop him as he sprints from one spot to the next. His hands scrape against the bricks, his shoulders bruising as he shoves doors open only to slam them back shut. He doesn’t waste time on discouragement, doesn’t want to think of what will happen if he can’t find the Golden Oriole— the only antidote to the poison his mother brought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he finds another set of stairs, descending into the dark like the ones that led to his cell. A shiver runs down Jaskier’s spine, quick and cool, a drop of ice along his spine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man blocks the way to the stairs, a stranger with blonde hair curled back around his ears. There’s blood on his cheek, his hands loosely gripping a sword as he scans the area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time his eyes land on Jaskier, Jaskier’s already lunging forward, ducking beneath the man’s blade and jabbing out with a fist against his ribs. He ducks forward again, instinct taking over as he bends beneath the swing of the sword, trying to take out the man’s legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man notices at the last second, staggering back with only a small measure of his balance taken away. He runs at Jaskier now, but Jaskier turns, the man’s sword clanging against the wall as Jaskier spins away from it. The clash screeches through the keep, an echoing sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier breathes heavily but this man’s less prepared than he, his arms swaying from the weight of his blade, unused to the size and over exerting himself on the speed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won’t last long. Still, he pushes past his exhaustion, rushing for Jaskier once more. He yells, roaring, but Jaskier keeps himself quiet, focused on getting past him. Jaskier takes a half step back, bracing himself with one foot behind; he pushes forward once the man is close enough, tossing himself at his middle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man tries to catch himself as they fall back, but Jaskier holds tighter, forcing them forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both yell as the floor disappears from beneath them, suddenly rolling down the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyes shut as they fall, his head filled only with the sickening thuds and crashes that follow them down. Something in his chest cracks, ribs fracturing as they hit the uneven edges of the steps, his tongue bursting between his teeth with each impact. The man tangled with him continues to scream, his own body cracking and breaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, they hit the bottom, Jaskier’s shoulders curled to protect him from the stone floor. There’s a crack beside him, then the man with him stops screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scent of blood fills the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier pushes to his feet, shaking, barely able to focus enough to stand. The man next to him lies face down, a pool of blood growing from beneath his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier grabs the sword from his now limp hand, holding his breath as he does so. A trickle of blood sticks to the hilt, pressing to Jaskier’s palm; he ignores it, pushing past his nausea and into the corridor before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Down the hall, he’s greeted with a large wooden door. A flicker of light dances beneath it, a candle or a lamp left on inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shoves the door open, breaths heavy in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vials of liquid shimmer, winking at him with a glare on their glass. Mixtures and ingredients, bowls and candles— the lab for the witchers to make their potions. Golden Oriole— familiar and taunting— rests in rows across from Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And beneath it all stands Zuzanna. His mother, a sword raised in her arm, prepared to crush them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No!” Jaskier shouts, rushing forward only to stop when she turns her eyes towards him. They light up— cruel, awful— and sharpen into a blade he’s known all his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” she says, the name twisting in shock. “Tell me— is it satisfying to side with those who killed our family?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood and fire and witchers and hurt. For the longest time, that’s all he knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But— before that…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gold and gowns and finery and power. His father letting their people starve; his brothers teasing the poorer kids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shakes his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, mother, it wasn’t a witcher.” He steps forward, his sword pointed down. “Someone took a witcher’s things, they—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Jaskier, Zuzanna shakes her head. It’s an action that could be dark, angry; instead, she only fills her eyes with a cold pity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mind’s been corrupted by the witcher, darling,” she says, the endearment spreading a bitter taste across the back of Jaskier’s mouth. She’s never called him such things before— or, at least, she’s never said it as though she’s meant it. How could he have taken so long to see the distance between them, sharpening him like the knife Zuzanna needed him to be? “I should have known better than to send you out on your own.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, even Valdo saw it,” Jaskier says, continuing to step towards her. Her back’s to the wall, there’s nowhere for her to go but, somehow, it’s still Jaskier who feels caught in her trap. “He nearly died saving Geralt, and—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that would have been another son taken from me.” Her voice— a voice once meant for lullabies and laughter, for cooing over scraped knees— twists into something jagged, something broken like a crack in the earth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier stares into the abyss of her words, held in place by their implications.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what of me, mother?” He asks, his voice rich with a lifetime’s worth of tears and insecurity. “Will you not listen to me? Am I not your son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna’s eyes— little earths and skies, blues with flecks of brown or perhaps browns with flecks of blue— shimmer with the first tears Jaskier’s seen in them since the night of their family’s murder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You stopped being my son the second you sang a song for the witchers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words sink in, poison of their own, latching onto his mind and heart and tugging until he feels them tear. His breath hitches and something breaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says with a new clarity— clouds parting in his mind to make room for the realization. Slowly, his sword rises. “I stopped being your son when you decided to make me your soldier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna’s eyes widen— vast pools of disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or, no. Not disbelief. Never just disbelief or hatred or anger. Her mouth twists into an ugly line, her cheeks spotting with awful shades of red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glares back at Jaskier and all he sees is the madness that’s been there all along.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s his mother who makes the first move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sword in hand, she rushes Jaskier with that crazed look haunting her features. Jaskier blocks her blow inches from his face, his own eyes widening as he realizes what’s happened; his mother attacked him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother tried to kill him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier staggers away, fighting against the sudden spinning of his head. For a moment, he feels as though he’ll be sick, but he straightens back and pushes past the turning of his stomach. Past the pain in his chest, past the fear and shock biting into his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beneath it, he finds nothing but desperation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His cool facade crumbles as his mother attacks again. She uses wide swings, aiming to slash, her blade crashing into the potions and vials around her. It’s a large room but Jaskier still steps back, leading her from the Golden Oriole, fighting against years of training as he falls into the defense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The defense. Only the defense. His mother is mad and crazy and horrible but she’s still his mother. He can’t bring himself to kill her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She, however, has no such concerns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The witcher has taken your mind!” She cries between strikes. Her actions are wild, uncoordinated, but it’s the unpredictability that makes her dangerous. “This is the only way to free you from his control!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She almost sounds as though it’s truly Jaskier she cares for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have to fight anymore,” Jaskier shouts back, raising his sword to deflect another one of her swings. “Please, just listen to me. Mother, please!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her sword dips and Jaskier charges with the flat of his sword, fingers aching from how tightly he holds the hilt. His mother, though, is ready for it. She braces herself in the same way she once watched Jaskier learn, a young boy shifting his feet into a position best suited for battle. Her eyes are the same as they were then, dedicated to the fight and the war she’d been creating around Jaskier’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the sight, Jaskier’s vision tints red. It unsteadies his hold on the sword. It makes his actions too erratic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was never a war!” Their blades clash together as he screams, swords crossed between them. Jaskier pushes forward— forward, forward— hoping for his mother to give, hoping for her to listen. She bares her teeth at him, refusing to budge an inch. “It doesn’t need to be a battle, anymore. Let’s just be a family again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t respond. But Jaskier can see the way her eyes dart down and back up, the way she raises her elbow just a bit higher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she goes to spin beneath his blade, it’s him who’s prepared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns to the right as she tries to spin around him, aiming for his back. It allows him to catch her blade in time, to dirty the air with more sounds of fighting. But he doesn’t only block this time— he completes his arc, every ounce of rage and hurt and terror fuelling his action as he hits his mother’s sword aside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he knocks it out of her grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna swears, holding her hand close to her chest. Her eyes never leave Jaskier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were supposed to avenge our family,” she says, her voice low and trembling. Jaskier swallows the knot in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried so long to be who you wanted me to be,” he says. His mother looks away, still curled in on herself. “I know it was never enough. I’m truly sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna’s silent, turned from Jaskier. Jaskier holds his sword up, watching and waiting for any sign of movement— for her to run or lash out at him, to scream or accept his words. His mother, though, remains still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments pass with only the sound of their breathing. Slowly, Jaskier lowers his blade; slowly, he approaches her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One quick hit to his jaw, something small and heavy in his mother’s grip— something terrible and sharp. A dagger cutting from the edge of his chin and up towards his temple, his cheek splitting open beneath its edge. His head whips back, his body arching from the force of her hit. He stumbles away, legs weak, and gasps at the sudden burn filling the left side of his face. His sword waves uselessly beside him as he staggers, crashing into vials and glass and walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, it’s only him and the blood dripping from his cheek. Only him and every memory of every backhand and slap and insult. Him and all his failures.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, it’s the sight of his mother running past him, hurrying for the collection of Golden Oriole. It’s Zuzanna and everything she has left to destroy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt. The witchers. Everything Jaskier has found on his own— Jaskier, not Julian. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She runs and all he can do is think of Geralt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s blade cuts into her side with a horrible sound— a sound like the men he’d killed before, a ripping and then a gasp of pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zuzanna falls to her knees, Jaskier collapsing with her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s over, mother. It’s time for this madness to stop,” he says, panting. His voice is nearly empty, wrung out like clouds after a storm. The ache of his cut pulls at his skin, his vision hazy and lips refusing to work properly. Still, he ignores it, looking to his mother’s wound instead. She keeps a hand pressed to her side, wincing. He reaches for her, close enough to rest his hand over her own. “It’s not deep. We can fix it. I can help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother’s smile is an awful thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. You can’t,” she says. Her eyes shimmer as she reaches back for him, fingers stroking his cut gently. Like a mother rinsing tears from her child’s eyes; like the tenderness he deserved all along. She cups his cheek, and he wonders if she knows where she is— when she is. He wonders if the mother he once knew is buried beneath the hate. “You forget our blades are poisoned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A leaden weight sinks in Jaskier’s gut, the fire of his wound seeming to scream in response to her words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay,” he says through misty eyes. “The witchers have something that can help. They helped Valdo, right? If we—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we go to them, we lose all that we are.” Zuzanna pulls away from Jaskier, reaching into her cloak. “But we can still stop them. I understand now, darling, I do. We need to be better than them. We need to be as strong as them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? What are you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like fog lifting from a battlefield, storm clouds pulling back from the sky, realization settles upon Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Golden Oriole he sent to his mother. She holds it in her hands now, cradling it as she never cradled Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can be like them. It’s why you sent it— you know this is where they find their strengths. This is how they can be so monstrous.” Her eyes are horrid things in her pale face, wide and bright as she struggles to open the vial. “You know. You understand. We can stop them, we can stop this—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mother, no.” Jaskier grabs her wrist, holding her in place. Gods, but she’s so cold. “You’re not making sense, you don’t understand, you’ll die. Let’s forget this. Let’s move on and be happy, gods, mother, why can’t we just be happy? I forgive you, the witchers will forgive you. Things can be okay, we don’t have to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Julian,” she says, and she says it like she’s never known any other name for him at all. She smiles and perhaps it’s that smile that holds Jaskier in place; perhaps it’s the tender caress of a name he hasn’t heard from her since he was just a boy with no view of the future. “Always so full of dreams.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she pushes back, shoving Jaskier away, it’s already too late to stop her from drinking the potion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first— nothing. Next, color returning to her cheeks. A deep breath and a new light in her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then comes the screaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier reaches for her but she pulls back, muscles tugged tight as her eyes widen and an awful screeching sound fills the air. Her nails dig into the stone ground, cracking and bleeding, and she chokes on her own cries. Jaskier calls her name— calls her mother, calls her mama— but she shakes her head, convulsing suddenly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mother!” Jaskier screams but she doesn’t hear him anymore. Her voice cracks on a final shout then, at all once, she goes limp. A felled tree, an animal killed in its trap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lands before Jaskier, the vial rolling free from her hands. And all Jaskier can do is stare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mother,” he whispers, but it’s not her. The dimmed eyes and the expressionless face were never part of the mother he knew. This is just a body. This is just the fate her hatred and anger brought her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Within Jaskier, something shifts but he can’t quite name what it is. Acceptance? Grief? It’s everything at once, rushing through him like some awful wave, some terrible storm coming to consume him whole. He trembles before it, alone once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone— though, not quite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the new silence, sounds of battle make themselves known. Clanging swords and war cries echo from outside, faint sounds of the fight going on in the distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like that night so many years ago, there is no time to mourn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shoves himself to his feet, stomach rolling at the sight of his paling hands. The poison from his mother’s blade pulses through his bloodstream, leaving him dizzy and disoriented, but he forces himself to focus. Grabs a handful of potions, takes his mother’s dagger. He ignores the sour taste in his mouth, the pain behind his eyes, choosing only to turn and run. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, there’s no one to fight on his way back, no one to stop him from going straight for the witchers. He follows the sounds of battle, his breaths hot in his chest as he runs. Even when he emerges into the cold and ice of the field, all he feels is heat pressed to the inside of his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop!” He shouts, only barely seeing what’s going on. The gates are still yet to be closed and bodies litter the ground, blood and snow and disaster. Jaskier stumbles forward, lifting his mother’s blade as eyes turn to him. “Your leader is dead! There’s nothing to be gained here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Murmurs cut through the assassins, whispering to one another as they recognize the knife. The witchers are spread out amongst them— some cut and bleeding, but still alive. Jaskier blinks, clearing the haze from his vision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave while you still have your lives,” he proclaims. “Leave while we still allow you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s no grand speech but, bit by bit, the mercenaries begin to back away. A few continue to fight but without the enthusiasm from before. More than most retreat from the battle, running and yelling at each other to fight another day— as if that day should ever come. Those that remain face only death, cut down by the defense of a witcher’s blade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sighs, swaying on his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He protected them. If nothing else, he protected the witchers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shakes as Geralt approaches him, his vision still swimming. The left side of his face has gone numb, the fire spreading to other parts of his body— his arms, his throat, his heart. He takes slow breaths, blinking up at Geralt as he comes to stop before him. He tries to say something, to think of a witty remark to end the battle on, but he only succeeds in falling into Geralt’s arms, allowing Geralt to steady him with a small frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier?” Geralt lifts a hand to Jaskier’s cheek, brushing the cut with his thumb. He breathes in slowly and the frown deepens into something worse, into the kind of concern only Jaskier should be allowed to feel. “Poison?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods— or, at least, he tries to. His neck feels too weak to hold his head up, the warmth of the poison distracting his muscles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All the blades were coated in it,” he says. His hands— too pale, too shaky— fumble to pass the potions over to Geralt, shoving them over with the last of his urgency. “Here. You can— You can help your family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you?” Geralt asks. A good question, Jaskier supposes-- a fair one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He has no response, though, already closing his eyes and letting the poison lull him to sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt pulls him close, says his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing more matters after that.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jaskier wakes slowly to a new kind of warmth, something softer than the heat that had been enveloping him before. He sinks into it, sighing, and someone adjusts a blanket more tightly over his chest. Something cool and damp passes over his brow and down his cheek, easing any lingering pain there. Again, Jaskier sighs as memories from before start trickling into his mind— the fight, the witchers, the potions, his mother. His eyebrows furrow together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come now, don’t give me that look. You’re the one who made the decision- the rather rude decision— to get yourself poisoned even though you knew full well I was poisoned first,” a familiar voice says— complaining even as they wipe the blood from his face. Jaskier’s eyes peel open, uncaring of the sudden brightness as he stares up at Valdo’s dramatically offended expression. “Now, I know you like the attention but, really, it ruined my whole scheme of waking up in time to catch you crying at my bedside. Gods, I could have held that over you for ages! Well, I would if— Oh!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo cuts off, drawing back as Jaskier lurches forward, tossing his arms around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re the one who gave a speech saying I can’t lose any more loved ones,” Jaskier says as Valdo hesitantly returns the embrace, holding Jaskier as though he may break. It doesn’t take long, though, for him to tighten his hold, pressing Jaskier to him. Jaskier revels in his warmth, in the proof of life beneath his hands. “That includes you, too, you asshole. Promise you won’t do that again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo laughs, the emotion vibrating through the both of them as he rubs Jaskier’s back. “Only if you promise the same thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier huffs out his own small laugh, pulling back with a smile. Valdo mimics his expression, eyes bright even as he tries to smirk. He lets his touch linger on Jaskier’s arm, fingertips warming a small section of Jaskier’s skin, circling thoughtlessly back and forth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am glad you’re okay,” Valdo says, the words hesitant. They’ve not done this before, this sentimental brotherly thing, but Jaskier lets it surround him anyway, a soft breeze guiding his soul back to a gentler place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened?” He asks. “In the end? Do you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo gives a small nod.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From what I gathered, your witchers were able to get rid of the invaders entirely— chased them down the mountain like the pests they are. Pretty sure it was more an embarrassment to the army than it was a threat to the witchers,” he says with a small scoff. “I know the only concern is if Kaer Morhen’s location is spread, but the older witcher said they’ll have time to prepare for that— assuming anyone’s stupid enough to try attacking again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lets out a long breath. “That’s good. Not the potential of another attack, obviously. But the rest— that’s good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very much so,” Valdo says. Something new enters his expression, then— something reluctant and almost afraid to appear. He averts his gaze. “They found your mother in the keep. They didn’t talk much about it but I think they worked out how it happened. Poison, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Potions and blades flash through Jaskier’s mind, a battle he knows will haunt him. He shifts in the bed, his voice nothing more than a breath. He blinks down at his hands, furrowing his brows together. “Yeah. She, uh. She drank a witcher potion. Thought it would make her stronger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Valdo’s silent, though Jaskier can feel his eyes upon him. “I’m sorry you lost her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grief that rips through Jaskier’s chest is unexpected, the echoing of a wound pressing at his ribs. He sucks in a breath, shaking his head. Zuzanna was awful and manipulative and didn’t care for him at the end— and, yet, there was a time when she pulled him from a slaughter, a time when she held him close to her as they left their home behind. Even before that, Jaskier remembers small flashes of her smile— her hands running through his hair, working out knots or tangles; he remembers the faint melodies of a lullaby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be okay,” Jaskier says. Valdo lets out a sound like he doesn’t believe him, so Jaskier pins a smile to his face. It’s weak, a brush of mirth rather than his usual full-faced joy, but it’s enough for now. He watches Valdo, shrugging. “The real shame is that all I have left is you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Valdo says, though his eyes shift a little past Jaskier, glancing at the space behind him. “Me and a big scary witcher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier turns, his muscles protesting as he does so. He faces the infirmary doorway, gasping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt stands before him— in the same room but, suddenly, much too far away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt.” A breath— barely that. Jaskier hardly hears his own tremoring voice, though Geralt shifts— witcher hearing no doubt picking up everything down to the stutter of Jaskier’s heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t know what Geralt sees in his face, but he imagines it can’t be too dissimilar to the raw emotion painted in Geralt’s eyes as he steps forward. “Jaskier. You’re okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose that’s my cue to leave.” Valdo stands with an overexaggerated roll of his eyes as he approaches Geralt. “Now, Geralt. I’d give you the big brother talk about breaking his heart but, seeing as you saved both our lives, I suppose that can wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—” Geralt’s voice fades out as Valdo walks past him, ignoring whatever defense Geralt might have had for that statement. Geralt watches him go with a vague look of confusion on his face— one that eases when he turns towards Jaskier once more. He lets out a soft breath, taking the space Valdo had left, sitting by the bed and leaning close to Jaskier. “You scared me again. I thought I was going to lose you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier smiles, the action tugging at something taped across his cheek. He raises a hand to it slowly— bandages, something to cover the wound his mother’s left there. He recalls the drip of blood from his jaw, the sudden sting of her blade. It wasn’t deep but, from what Jaskier can feel, he won’t be surprised if it scars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s alright. It will have been worth it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me you were worried about this,” he says, brushing his fingers down towards the edge of the bandage, where a smaller portion of the cut peeks out. “It’s no worse than a papercut, Geralt, honestly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The joke only brings a frown to Geralt’s face, Geralt’s hands twitching in his lap as though wishing to reach out for Jaskier— to feel the scar, to reassure himself that it’s not as bad as he may think. Jaskier knows these things about Geralt so it’s easy for him to reach for Geralt’s hand, to lead fingerprint kisses to the area around the bandages.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The poison on the blade was meant to kill witchers. Do you have any idea how bad that made it for you?” Even when Jaskier’s hand falls away, Geralt remains. His thumb brushes the bandages, eyes focused on Jaskier’s face as though waiting for the first sign he’s not alright. “If you hadn’t been at Kaer Morhen, there would have been no way for you to survive it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop trying to take my place as the most dramatic.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I was here, and I did survive. We all did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Geralt finally lifts his hand from Jaskier’s face, moving it only to rest upon his arm. “Lambert’s a bit pissed about the whole thing but you’re right. We did survive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s smile softens with a sigh, his shoulders relaxing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’m glad.” He drops his eyes, a not-so-new thought coming to him. “I am sorry it happened. If I could have done anything differently— changed this or made it so it never came to pass— I would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. And you should know that everyone here has forgiven you,” Geralt says, causing Jaskier’s gaze to jump back up at him. “You stopped your mother from destroying our potions. You made an unbelievable sacrifice for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well.” Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to hold onto his smile, the grin wavering and falling with all the grace of snow from a cloud. He swallows, blinking. Geralt grabs his hand, giving him something to hold onto. “She stopped being my mother a while ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt hums again, simply watching Jaskier before, slowly, moving to sit beside him on the bed. Jaskier curls into him without thinking, Geralt readjusting to hold Jaskier against his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t make it hurt any less,” he says, his voice rumbling against Jaskier. It’s an anchor in the blueness Jaskier finds himself floating aimlessly in, the deep sorrow welling in his skin and veins. He turns towards Geralt, wishing almost that he could stay here forever— warm and safe and protected and loved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he whispers, knowing Geralt can hear him. “I suppose it doesn’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, still, there’s that fear of mourning a monster, someone capable of terrible things. Lullabies and insults trade places in his head, the fond memories mixing with the bad. Jaskier shakes his head softly, shutting his eyes against any threat of tears. She was his </span>
  <em>
    <span>mother</span>
  </em>
  <span>— he knows this. It’s okay for it to hurt, just like Geralt said. Still, the confliction and confusion he feels at his own grief are feelings he knows won’t easily go away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a breath. He takes another. It’s enough if that’s all he can do for now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s next?” He asks after a moment, still held safely in Geralt’s arms. “For us, I mean. What comes next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After your help, I doubt anyone will force you back into that cell. You can stay here. With us. As one of us.” Geralt pauses, and Jaskier can feel the slight tension in his body. “That is, if that’s what you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What I want,” Jaskier repeats. He’s never really had a chance to consider such a thing before. Gently, he untangles himself from Geralt, pulling back to look at him. He takes in the scars and pale hair, the warmth of his eyes and the curve of his lips. And, as Geralt simply looks back at him, Jaskier knows what his answer is. “I want to go wherever you’ll have me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Geralt— beautiful, lovely, perfect Geralt— smiles and pulls Jaskier closer to him. He grins and dreams are made and undone in those lips, promised and swept away— and Jaskier is drawn towards them, forever so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If life could grant me one blessing,” Geralt says, a hope like none other spilling into his voice— a burst of color dripping across his words and over Jaskier, “I would have you, always, at my side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt leans towards Jaskier, and Jaskier leans back towards him, breathing in the battlefield scent of Geralt— the rain and dirt and sweat clinging to his hair and skin like a cloak. The scent of Geralt; a scent that feels like home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier smiles. “I think that’s a rather easy blessing to grant, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt chuckles lowly, and Jaskier sucks in a breath at the sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely has the chance to let the breath back out before Geralt closes the distance between them, pressing their lips together. It’s a kiss like feathers and summer breezes and mist and wind. A kiss like everything Jaskier ever reached for, everything he’s ever dreamed of. A kiss like the sky and all that lies beyond it— warm and present and </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs against Geralt’s mouth, everything suddenly welling up in him all at once. The victory and the relief, the love and the knowledge that this life is his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, sounding every bit the way Jaskier feels. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier smiles at the sound of his name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes. Yes, that is exactly who he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s such a simple epiphany: he’s free to be whatever he pleases. A bird. A bard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt; &lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;&lt;&gt;</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Epilogue</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A winter passes. A winter of ice and snow and storm. A winter that witchers know best, that witchers can prepare for and accept. A season of frozen nights and biting mornings, days and evenings filled with the chattering of teeth and the fog of breath in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A season that only witchers are supposed to know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A winter that Jaskier spends at Geralt’s side. Because Jaskier chose to stay with Geralt, to be with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now, as the snow slowly melts and the sun gently rises, Geralt marvels at how easily Jaskier made such a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Any other human, Geralt is sure, would not be able to do that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt smiles to himself, checking the straps of the bags hanging off Roach’s side. It’s later than he would typically like to leave— the trails down the mountain sure to be muddy and slick from the morning sun— but he can’t fault Jaskier for sleeping past the time they were meant to wake. The last night before leaving is typically one filled with drinks and games and other merriment, and— for all his stubbornness— not even Jaskier can fight off the effects of White Gull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, Geralt must admit, he’s doing a fantastic job giving a headache to those in the keep who didn’t suffer such ill effects earlier this morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Toss a coin to your witcher—” Jaskier sings outside the stables, strumming his lute.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo follows with the next line, his voice deeper and more accented than Jaskier’s when he sings. “— Oh valley of plenty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Toss a coin to your witcher—” Like usual, they trade off lyrics, adding more embellishments with each transition, a competition Geralt has yet to understand, despite how often he’s witnessed it. Truly, the greatest regret Geralt has is allowing Jaskier to gift Valdo the old lute they’d found in the keep a few days after their arrival. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A friend of humanity!” Valdo hits a note Geralt is certain no bard is meant to hit. He winces, though he does so with a smile as Jaskier quickens the tempo of the song just enough to throw Valdo off. Not that he needs to resort to such tricks; it’s clear to anyone listening who the better singer is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, of course, perhaps Geralt’s just a little biased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t give me that look,” he says to Roach, the horse eyeing him as though to point out the fond smile gracing his face. He’s smiled more this winter than he can recall smiling in an entire year. He won’t let his horse, of all things, judge him for it. “Come on, then. Let’s go get him before he kills Valdo with his lute case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Geralt gets Roach out of the stables and closer to where Jaskier and Valdo are, the two bards are already bickering back and forth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I win,” Valdo says in a tone that suggests he’s been saying it for a while. “I win because you sang the wrong note.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier turns a rather fascinating shade of fuschia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Valdo, I wrote the fucking song!” He shouts. “How could I sing the wrong fucking note if I wrote the fucking song?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt laughs softly, saving Jaskier from hearing whatever Valdo’s response would be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Geralt says, turning to Jaskier, “this is why the others were so glad to hear that we were leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad?” Jaskier gasps and slaps a hand over his heart. “Geralt, I think you mean to say that they were absolutely heartbroken to know I would be gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt shakes his head, laughing again. “Just go get your horse. We need to leave now if you want to stay at an inn tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sighs— or, perhaps groans is a better word for it— and does as Geralt says, grumbling to himself about lazy witchers and empty threats as he goes into the stables. Geralt watches him leave, enamored even by the stomping and fit-throwing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back around when he hears Valdo walking towards him. Valdo’s dropped his smile, though there’s still a warmth in his eyes as he approaches Geralt. He’s a strange man, Geralt’s learned. Always balancing something serious with something soft— kindness and sternness all wrapped into an overprotective guardian for Jaskier and his troubles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to miss him,” Valdo says. A simple statement he then snorts at, shaking his head. “Don’t tell him I said that. When he asked, I actually said I won’t have time to think of him. But, well. I needed to tell someone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt makes a small noise, considering Valdo’s words. “He’ll miss you, too. Probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, definitely,” Valdo says. “Once he hears the songs of </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> witcher, he’ll be crying himself to sleep each night out of jealousy </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>homesickness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, it’s Geralt who snorts. Right, of course, Valdo’s songs. After sharing one too many stories with Jaskier— and far too many drinks— he’d sworn to follow Jaskier’s example in using his music to change the Continent’s tune about witchers. It wasn’t anything anyone thought they were serious about but, then, a few days after that conversation, Eskel had shrugged and given in, offering Valdo the opportunity to travel with him for a few months. It’s a development that’s still baffling everyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps he’ll be too busy to miss you, too,” Geralt says, raising an eyebrow at Valdo’s words. It’s a joke— a repetition of what Valdo had told Jaskier— but Valdo sighs, all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps he will be.” He lets out another breath, softer, and then looks directly into Geralt’s eyes. “I should thank you for that, by the way. For making him happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh— so it’s one of those conversations. Geralt gives a small awkward grunt, feeling a phantom blush across his cheeks— though he knows it’s not there, it’s still warm and awfully uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you said you didn’t want to give me the older brother talk,” he says, glancing over at Roach— who, for the record, has wandered to the side, leaving Geralt alone to face this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, apparently, Jaskier got an older brother talk from </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lambert and Eskel, so I think you can put up with a few words from me,” Valdo says, rolling his eyes when Geralt looks back over at him. It’s a short-lived exasperation, fading into a fond smile and a small chuckle. “But I do mean it, you know. Gods, have you seen his smile now? He never smiled like that before. You, dearest Geralt of Rivia, brought him back to life after years of heartache and loneliness. And, you know what? I like to think he did the same for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, gods, Valdo. Geralt will give him this— he knows his audience. Perhaps he’ll make a good bard, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unbidden, memories of Blaviken and town stonings arise in Geralt’s mind, appearing like a pit in his stomach when he thinks of his own encounters with death and heartbreak and hatred. Loneliness had tailed after Geralt for so long that he simply accepted it, had called it a side effect of being a witcher. No matter how lively his brothers were or how often Vesemir worried, Geralt had settled into the role until he’d mastered it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, then, a silly little poet came along and knocked at his shell, peering into him in a way no one had ever dared to do before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t answer Valdo’s speculation but, going from Valdo’s smile, the answer seems to be obvious all the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just promise to keep an eye on him out there,” Valdo says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt nods, hearing the notes of concern beneath Valdo’s joking tone. “I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright!” Jaskier announces his presence with a shout, leading Pegasus out of the stables, already saddled and packed to go. He climbs up onto his horse’s back once they’re close enough to the trail, grinning down at Geralt. “Are we heading off now? Or was that line about leaving early just a trick to get me away for a bit while you two awful bastards gossiped behind my back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t bother with a response to his teasing, simply shaking his head and mounting Roach. There’s a small silence as he does so, a comfortable quiet that allows him to prepare to leave his home for another year. He often leaves the keep in silence; it’s the first time, however, that he’s felt secure in the knowledge that it’s not a quiet that will last forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As though understanding this, Jaskier turns his gaze towards Valdo, a wicked smile on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodbye, brother dear.” He waves a hand dramatically, bowing as sarcastically as he can while on his horse, but there’s still something fond in the title he gives Valdo. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brother</span>
  </em>
  <span>— a term he’s said as often as he can, Geralt’s noticed, and without ever losing the shine in his eyes as he says it. “I shall hope for your monster-hunting travels to be kind, and for your songs to be— well, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>good, </span>
  </em>
  <span>per se, but, at least, not awful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I wish you all the courage and bravery you never had while we were children,” Valdo says, with a bow and a smirk of his own. “May the gods smile favorably upon your bottom, even as it runs from every danger they toss your way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier shakes his head, laughing. “Goodbye, Valdo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Valdo’s own smile softens. “Goodbye to you, too. Watch over your witcher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt can’t help but watch Jaskier, savoring the soft pink shade of his cheeks as he nods at Valdo’s words. “I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One more nod, one more soft gaze upon one another. Geralt nearly feels he should turn away, let these two have their sentiments. He’d said his farewells to his brothers the night before, a night often filled with similar kinds of joking and messing around before, inevitably, falling into the same bittersweet feelings that he sees here. Leaving for the path is never easy for them, no matter how long they’ve done this. There’s always the fear that this is the last time you’ll see someone you love, the last time you can hold them or look into their eyes. It’s the most terrifying part of a witcher’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jaskier is brave— braver than Geralt could ever know to be— and he turns from Valdo with nothing but a bright smile stretching across his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s go, then,” he says. “I’m ready when you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Geralt smiles back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Side by side, they leave the keep, beginning the treacherous trail down. Geralt warns Jaskier of places where the road may be steep or slick, and Jaskier follows his directions with little more than a huff. He gets the hang of it quickly, though, and, soon, it’s nothing more than another day of him and Jaskier riding for a new adventure under the same sun that’s always watched their travels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, uh, where are we going?” Jaskier asks. “Any specific plans on that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We go wherever the contracts lead us,” Geralt answers. In the trees around them, birds are just beginning to sing, signs of spring emerging in nature. Still, the wind nips at them, and Geralt finds himself enamored by the reddened tip of Jaskier’s nose. He wonders if it would feel as soft as it looks if he were to touch it, if he could smooth out the wrinkles around it; then, he thinks of how he’s never thought so much about a nose before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier makes a soft thinking noise, humming for a bit before the tip of a smile peeks out from the corner of his mouth. “Maybe it can lead us somewhere warm, like the coast.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt raises an eyebrow at the same time that Jaskier glances over, his eyes shimmering with stars of hope and playfulness. Geralt snorts, shaking his head. “We’ll see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We’ll see</span>
  </em>
  <span>— but he’s already thinking of how he could finally discover if Jaskier’s eyes are more like the sky or the sea, or if they’re something else altogether. He thinks of Jaskier warming beneath a coastal sun, arms stretched out wide as his doublet hangs open. Jaskier laughing on the beach, kicking at waves, and complaining about sand in his hair. Jaskier happy and carefree and dragging Geralt into such absurd emotions with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once, he knows, he’d have told himself to ignore such thoughts. Now, though, the pictures in his mind only grow— expanding and spreading until he’s sure he’ll burst.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down at his hands, hiding the small smile threatening to expose his true thoughts to the bard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are monsters all over the Continent. It couldn’t hurt to check the coast for contracts— it’d only be the responsible thing to do, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, he’s not sure if it’s entirely responsible. Vesemir would certainly have some select words for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next to Geralt, Jaskier pulls his lute around and starts to sing, something simple and youthful— almost a lullaby, but not quite.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Going to the coast may not be responsible but, with the Continent’s greatest bard at his side, he’s sure he can get away with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks ahead, the world lighting up as the sun continues to rise, and he plans a visit to the coast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To the place where the earth meets the sky.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading!! Please leave a comment with your thoughts!! </p><p>Come hang out with me on twitter or tumblr ( @ hum_my_name for twitter and hum-my-name for tumblr)!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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